


Unforeseen Consequences

by Salamon2



Series: Return of the Direwolves [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Adventure, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Butterfly Effect, Chaos Theory, Character Death, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Gen, Graphic Description of Corpses, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Multi, Not A Fix-It, Unreliable Narrator, Warging, actions have consequences
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-10
Updated: 2014-05-01
Packaged: 2018-01-18 21:13:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 68
Words: 94,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1443166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Salamon2/pseuds/Salamon2
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The decisions and changes that the four youngest Stark children have made to their past spread their influence out from Winterfell, spiraling out of their control and bringing chaotic consequences to the entirety of Westeros, completely changing the game of thrones. This story is told from many different points of view and is a sequel to Begin Again. Please read that story first or this one won't make as much sense. Rating is for content in later chapters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Jon Arryn I

**JON ARRYN**

 

When Jon had first received Ned’s letter, he had been on the verge of asking Stannis if he would consider taking his son to foster. The boy was small and sickly and had only just been weaned from Lysa--but that didn’t stop him from nipping at her breasts, even in public! This was no way for a boy of six to behave! And his wife only encouraged the behavior, in the name of keeping him close and safe.

 

Yet he did not begrudge his wife her indulgence to the boy for he was prone to shaking fits, and was her only child to live after a long string of miscarriages and stillborns. But the boy, he hoped, would not long remain a boy. One day his sickly son would inherit the Vale--a day he hoped was not too soon in its arrival. The Vale, much like the North he knew, followed strength--and a sick squalling hatchling would be pushed out of the Moon door if he had not at least strength of character for the East to respect. So the boy must be raised away from his mother. He had already mentioned it to Lysa, and she had raged and wailed at the thought of being separated from her babe--as she called their hatchling of a son.

 

Jon considered what Ned could offer his son. He himself had reinforced the quiet wolf’s strict sense of honor, almost to the point where he was more of an honorary Arryn than a Stark in that regard alone. There was the matter of his acknowledged bastard, whose mother nobody knew--though the fact that he’d ridden out of Dorne with the babe did narrow the possibilities. But the fact that Ned had taken in the babe and raised him as one of his own on the one hand showed a sense of compassion and duty, not to mention an ability to acknowledge and live with one’s errors. On the other it set a public example of private transgressions, and seemed to show there to be trouble in the marriage bed--though five trueborn children suggested that this had been overcome. Then there were the other benefits to weigh out--Robert would grow as a brother with his cousins and be tended to by his mother’s sister--and how could Lysa refuse that? She could even easily visit the boy, though he’d be at a distance to be sure. And those five cousins would, the seven willing, help his son if ever in the future his son’s rule were challenged due to his weakness—as unlikely as it might be, he would still need to consider it. And those cousins could inspire great change in his son. Perhaps turn him from a hatchling into a falcon chick?

 

Stannis however offered his own benefits as a foster father. He was stern, with no doubt at all about his strength—almost to the point of arrogance, but never once crossing that threshold. He had no sons of his own thus far and could spend his time turning Robert into the son he’d never had. But there was a sense of expectation that came with Stannis—that the world owed him something that Jon did not know if he wanted his son to have. And Stannis could be less than forgiving when dealing with matters of justice--he knew well of his loyal short fingered Onion Knight--viewing that past deeds were not erased by recent. If Jon had thought that after the sack of King’s Landing the late war might have raged on for several years. Then there was the fact that Stannis was an easy one day’s boat trip to Dragonstone from King’s Landing, and Lysa could feel that the boy, while apart from her, wouldn’t be too apart--even if he wasn’t with family of hers.

 

It was a tough decision, and one he should not make in any haste. He rose from his desk, and moved to his dining hall, asking for wine to be sent so he might mull over the situation some more with ease. He liked the Hand’s dining hall, while not grand like those afforded to the King, it opened up onto a splendid terrace with a view of Blackwater Bay that in these late evening hours he found relaxing to view. He was surprised however to find that the King was there waiting for him, finishing a cup of wine he’d brought with him. Upon his arrival into the room, Jon gave his bow, as was only right, and then took his seat.

 

“You wish to speak with me?” asked Jon

 

“Aye, Ned has sent me a letter.”

 

Jon wondered if it was on the same subject, “You as well?”

 

“What did his say to you?” asked Robert

 

Jon smiled before saying, “He asked if my family and I might journey to Winterfell for a family visit, and for the honor of fostering his nephew in Winterfell, if it so pleased me.”

 

Robert laughed adding, “He seems to be in an asking mood. He asked me if I might make his bastard a Stark.”

 

This news troubled Jon—not that it wasn’t unheard of—but it was typically the recourse of a man in desperation to preserve his family from dying out. With five trueborn children, it made little sense, “Why would he ask that?”

 

“Mayhaps his marriage to that trout isn’t as cozy as we’ve all thought?”

 

Jon didn’t like what this move suggested. It bode for a potential falling out between the Tullys and the Starks, and falling outs had a bad tendency to eventually lead to wars in his experience. If not now, then in a few years hence. Mayhaps it might be better to send Robert to Stannis. Just then the wine he’d asked for arrived.

 

“Ahh, good, I could use a refresher!” barked Robert, holding out his cup for it to be filled. As it was Jon thought of the coded warning at the end of Ned’s letter. He wasn’t the only one insisting for him to get a taster, Varys and his little birds had been tweeting as much. Well, he had his own spies--Valemen who had reported nothing of any tampering with any wine. And yet here was Ned singing the same song as Varys--were rumors of an assassination plot against him that widespread that they reached his ears in the North?

 

Well, either way, from this batch he’d be safe as Robert always had a taster on hand. It bothered Jon, he felt it showed weakness—as a King should show he had no fear of his subjects—but it made sense for him to have one with two Targaryeons still yet living and plotting if Varys’ whispers of a potential marriage for the girl to the Dothraki were true. As Jon had his own goblet being filled, Robert summoned the thin man--Penos--from the shadows and told him to drink from his cup. The man did as he asked, commenting that the wine was rather too sweet for his palate. Robert laughed as he reached out to take the chalice from the man, but to his shock Penos dropped the wine to the floor, joining it not long after. As Robert began to terrorize his server, demanding to know every detail of the wine’s journey to the table, Jon in horror could only conclude King’s Landing was not safe for him or his kin.


	2. Bran I

**BRAN**

 

Arya, Sansa, Rickon and himself all had gathered at the Wolves’ Pen, as it had come to be known by Farlen, the kennel master, and the rest of the staff. Rickon was more here to play with the pups than to be a full participating member of the conversation that needed to be had. It was finally time they talked about something that all of them had been avoiding for long enough—namely the seventh direwolf pup.

 

All four had been shocked to see that after Shaggydog--who’d come out sixth of his packmates—that the utterly exhausted direwolf mother had given birth to one last scrawny runt of a black and white coated male pup. The direwolf had been so exhausted she’d been unable take the sac off the smallest of her pups and it had been father who had done so for the wolf, much to her apparent appreciation. Their father speculated that had she had her litter in the wild, the seventh pup probably wouldn’t have lived, but instead have suffocated in the sac.

 

“Looking at it scares me,” finally admitted Bran to his sisters, after they had sat outside the pen for long enough without speaking.

 

Sansa looked as if she understood without him having to say anything else, while Arya instead asked a simple, “Why?”

 

Bran took a moment to think of his answer, choosing his words carefully before speaking, “It’s not the pup itself. It’s what it represents. It’s alive when it shouldn’t be.”

 

Arya for her credit didn’t respond to this, as though mulling over his meaning. It was Sansa who finally broke the silence--if one could call a conversation where Rickon manhandling the tiny Shaggydog while delightfully squealing in the background, against silence.

 

“It’s alive when it shouldn’t be. It’s unexpected change. Something none of us saw coming or could predict would happen.”

 

Bran nodded his head in utter agreement with Sansa’s take on things. Up until this point Bran had thought they could make changes--like saving the direwolf mother, agreeing that Theon needed to be killed before he turned his cloak, telling their family about the future--though certainly each could tell and knew they hadn’t explained everything, and so on--yet feel that everything would generally continue all the same. And because of that constancy they would have control over what changed. This pup’s existence laughed in their faces that they had any control over anything.

 

“The thing is, this is not even that large of a change--what if something bigger changes?” supposed Bran.

 

“It’s bound to have already happened, I think father might have written to Uncle Jon to warn him about Aunt Lysa,” explained Sansa.

 

“If Uncle Jon lives…” began Bran.

 

Sansa finished his thought, “Then father doesn’t become Hand.”

 

“And then what?” asked Bran

 

Arya irritably sighed and stood, “You two can sit here thinking and questioning about whatever changes, I care not. Theon awaits.” And with that she left.

 

The aftermath of Theon’s near death experience had taken a strange turn, as it turned out an infection of some kind had gotten into his blood after the letting. Bran figured it was only a matter of time until Theon died, that Maester Luwin was only delaying the inevitable. But Theon was fighting the infection--some days even feeling better to be more coherent , which Bran hated because he started pitching a fit about how he wasn't so sick, but ultimately he was only just fighting it.

 

Their father had ordered the three of them to assist Maester Luwin tend to the Greyjoy heir as a kind of penance for their actions towards the future turncloak. Today had been Arya’s turn to assist the Maester, and she had to help him one last time before they were to be in bed. In addition to these duties, and at the insistence of their mother, they were to have daily discussions on morality with Septon Chayle. All three found the punishments tedious at best, but they indulged their parents into thinking they were trying to make amends for appearance’s sake. If ever Joffrey came through Winterfell’s gates they would not hesitate to act again, but from Theon they had also learned they would need to be much more discrete about it whenever they decided to strike.

 

After Arya had left, Bran asked Sansa “What else do you think we’ve changed without realizing it?”

 

Sansa simply replied, “I know not, but have faith--we’ll discover it sooner or later.”

 

And the black and white direwolf runt of a pup continued to suckle at his mother’s teat.


	3. Lysa I

**LYSA**

 

It had all gone wrong. Why couldn’t the old man have simply drunk the wine and died? Things could have been so much simpler then. She wouldn’t be boarding a boat bound for White Harbor--she’d instead already be out on the ocean, mayhaps halfway to the Vale with as good of weather as they’d had. And yet she knew that, on some level, it wasn’t just the old man’s fault, but hers as well. She had panicked and switched out the poisons for one more fast-acting than Tears of Lys--all because she’d casually overheard part of a conversation where Maester Pycelle had asked the old man what wine merchants had previously dealt with Petyr. Had her husband or anyone else in the court begun to suspect anything wrong with the wine and connected it to Petyr, Lysa couldn’t bear to think of the possibilities. She had acted rashly, as Petyr had told her, but she had done it for him. She took comfort in that Petyr knew just how far she’d go to keep him safe, just how much she loved him. And his knowing that had allowed her to meet with the old man with the ability to appear contrite a few days earlier.

 

_“Jon, you must understand, I worry so much about Robert’s health, and now yours is in jeopardy as well. Why not return to the Eyrie?” asked Lysa_

 

_The old man had scowled slightly before saying, “To flee to the Vale would show those assassins that we’re weak, and an Arryn is not weak. But if you simply are travelling to visit your sister, and for Robert to meet his cousins in the North, then you may be safe without giving those assassins the satisfaction of knowing that they got to you.”_

_He had then sighed before continuing in a more defeated tone, “It’s exactly because it isn’t safe here, Lysa that I’m sending you and Robert to your sister’s family. In the end, you were right. We’re not as safe as I would believe. I see that now, but in the North… well, Starks like the direwolves of their sigil protect their pack. Tullys as I’ve come to learn swim close with their family. With so many Stark-Tullys surrounding you, Lysa, you ought to be in the safest hands in the realm.”_

 

In that moment Lysa had almost garnered some fleeting amount of respect for the old man. It quickly passed, but for the rest of her life she would ponder that one admission and wonder what might have been if he’d been different.

 

Petyr assured her that things could still be saved. He would take care of everything in King’s Landing and she could go to Winterfell like the old man wanted her to with Robert, and whisper in her sister’s ear about how she suspected the Lannisters were attempting to kill her husband so that Tywin might become Hand. Yes, things could be recovered and then she and Petyr could be together, but until then she would have to wait in that frozen wasteland.


	4. Sansa I

**SANSA**

 

Bran and Arya might have little use for Septon Chayle’s discussions, but Sansa secretly found them fascinating. They held them in the Maester’s Turret after Maester Luwin had finished with the boys’ regular lessons. Sansa had taken residence during these discussions at Robb’s chair and desk, while Arya preferred Jon’s. Bran of course remained seated at his own. Arya usually had her eyes glued out the window to the practice yard, watching as Jon and Robb continued to train alongside Ser Rodrick’s squires. Bran most of the time closed his eyes and Sansa suspected he might be attempting to practice warging with Summer, as the first few times he’d shaken slightly, but not enough to be noticed. That his shaking though seemed with each passing day to lessen more and more allowed her to suspect that he was improving--though what he could get out of warging a nursing pup she didn’t understand. This wasn’t to say that neither Arya nor Bran ever added much to the conversation, but it was clearly obvious to Sansa and Septon Chayle that they weren’t interested in it. Sansa always listened to the Septon natter away to the sound of his old voice, speaking only to prompt him to continue vomiting moral questions and conundrums so that she might have time to ponder them and perhaps understand what upset people so much when these things were violated--and if she could understand that… then it mattered not what changed about the future.

 

Septon Chayle began by clearing his gravelly voice and then saying, “Today I’ve been asked by your mother to discuss the nuances of the morality behind striking an opponent who plots to do you harm before they attack you.” At this, Arya and Bran sighed and pretended to be interested, knowing that this was the conversation the past few weeks’ discussions on the justice of war, moral duties to set a good example for the smallfolk, etc. had all been leading up to.

 

Arya it seemed decided to hasten the lesson to an end by asking, “Like say if the Maegistar of Braavos were to learn that the Maegistar of Pentos had been buying up a company of sellswords to attack Braavos? And the Maegistar of Braavos heard about it while the Maegistar of Pentos was still negotiating the contract?”

 

Septon Chayle was flabberghasted for a moment, before continuing with, “Indeed, my lady. Such a situation would bring up a conundrum of moral and ethical issues. The Seven-Pointed Star is clear in the Warrior’s Book that Strength comes from Honor. And Honor involves Fairness and Fairness comes from Chivalric conduct. Thus it would mean that we must determine whether to attack someone who intends harm upon you, but has yet committed no crime before the Seven-Who-Are-One, is fair, chivalric, and honorable.”

 

“What if by attacking Pentos by surprise during the negotiations, the Braavosi Maegistar managed to prevent a war where thousands of Braavosi smallfolk died?” asked Sansa, continuing Arya’s chosen allegory.

 

“Then you could argue that the attack was chivalric, if it was in defense of the defenseless. Though hard to prove as the defenseless were never put in any danger. Also consider though the enemy was not given a fair chance to defend themselves, as is fair and thus it would not completely honorable. But I would ask, in attacking Pentos might not just as many smallfolk of Pentos die?”

 

Bran at this returned to closing his eyes.

 

“But by planning to attack Braavos, the smallfolk had been put in danger.” countered Sansa

 

“If you choose to define danger as the possibility to be killed, but then you would have to argue that we are all of us in danger every moment of our lives, that safety is an illusion--and we know that from the Father’s Book this cannot be so. For it is written that he provides safety and justice to his children and wife. How can the Father provide safety if it does not exist?”

 

Sansa already knew the answer to this from her time in King’s Landing. That the Northern Household was easily swept away with showed that it had been necessary for her, Arya, and father to have believed themselves safe, when they weren’t.

 

What is safety but an agreed illusion? And they that control the illusion...

 

It was at this moment that a raven began tapping at the window. At first Sansa thought it carried a message, but then she recalled it would have instead returned to the rookery above Maester Luwin’s private compartments--and besides there looked to be no note attached to its foot. The Septon, who had already long since left Sansa behind mulling on the definition of safety while he continued on rather proudly towards the conclusion he’d made about the moral question, was forced to stop his loquacious speech and walked over to the window to shoo the raven. When gesturing behind the glass prove inefficient, he instead tried opening the window and use it to bat away the hovering bird except the raven instead darted in through the open window and began to fly about the room. Septon Chayle, disturbed by its presence, gave pursuit and soon Sansa and even Arya began to find the scene of the Septon chasing the raven to be highly amusing. Bran however remained with his eyes closed. It was then that Sansa began noticing the bird was almost mocking the Septon as it attempted to fly in increasingly showy manner. When the Septon had had enough he attempted ignoring the bird, but it then insisted on not being ignored, cawing in the middle of his speech and scaring him by dive bombing him at rather inopportune times. It was beginning to become rather ridiculous. Finally the bird, having seemingly grown bored and tired from the exercise seemed to recall that it was a bird not meant to be stuck in such a cage as this room was and took flight out of the open window, which the Septon closed not a moment after its departure.

 

The Septon straightened his robes while saying, “I believe a small break is in order before we conclude our discussion on this topic.” And having said as much he left the room. It was then that Sansa noticed that Bran had slumpt over in his desk. Arya had noticed as much as well, and quickly the levity that the sisters had shared began to drain from the room as they tended to their little brother. Who after some rather violent shaking returned to the land of the conscious and shared a sly grin with his sisters.


	5. Eddard I

**EDDARD**

 

_He was running through the thick underbrush. The man who cared for the smaller cousins had begun to leave the door open, and his leg was healing. It was expected that he might take the pups and leave, but he stayed because the pups were safe in the man rock, and were growing close with the man pups, except the smallest pup. The smallest pup was his own pup. And this night he ran to enjoy the feeling of the dirt beneath his paws. He stopped when he came to a stream, smelling prey nearby… large prey. He stood still to try and catch sight of the prey, and saw it--a fat she-with-no-antlers, frozen in fear._

_Immediately he lept through the trees after the she-with-no-antlers. She bounded as best she could, blithely weaving through the trees. He would catch it, it was getting too close to the man rock now--it would have little place to run. When he saw the she-with-no-antlers stop in confusion upon coming to the man rock, he knew his time to strike was now. He gave one final leap and pounced, tearing into her sweet flesh. Much better fresh. He would save some for the pups._

 

It was then that he felt himself being shaken and suddenly he found himself in Catelyn’s bed, no longer at the edge of the forest. He and Catelyn had taken to sharing her bed more frequently since that one night, enjoying one another’s company more now that there were no secrets between them.

 

“Ned! Are you all right?” asked Catelyn

 

Ned sat up and shook his head, the memory of tearing apart the doe’s neck in his dream still quite fresh, “I believe so, but I had the strangest dream…”

 

Catelyn exclaimed with worried eyes, “I ought not expect anything less. You were growling in your sleep!”

 

“Growling?!” he asked, shocked at the word she had chosen.

 

“Growling, Ned,” confirmed Catelyn. She then began to rub his back while asking, “What was the dream?”

 

Oh that back rub was soothing to the touch. He leaned his body into her to make it easier for her to continue the movement while he replied somewhat distractedly, “I was running through the forest... and then I chased a deer down and killed it… tearing it apart with my mouth… it was at once thrilling... and succulent…”

 

Catelyn stopped her rubbing and Ned immediately missed her touch, almost feeling the inclination to whimper, but held himself back to keep from sounding like a beardless boy mewing for the touch of a woman. She then moved and patted the spot next to her he had half vacated by sitting up, saying, “‘Tis a strange dream, but only a dream. Lay back down and soon you will dream other dreams.”

 

He did so and she snuggled herself close to him, and they returned to sleep. Ned forgot the strange dream by morning.

                                          

The following day, after hearing two petitions from nearby smallfolk as to a land dispute on the farmers not respecting the boundary between their two selions in the oxgang they were to share, Maester Luwin gave him two letters from King’s Landing. Before the man with the choker of a Maester’s chain left, Ned asked him about Theon’s condition:

 

“How fares Theon? You think he likely to recover?”

 

His fingers were once again at his choker as he said, “He continues on in this twilight of life, neither truly living or dying. I’ve tried most everything to root out the infection, leeches, poultices, even firemilk--but it is a stubborn infection I fear and as soon as I fight it back one day, it returns in full force a day or two later. I fear he might continue like this for a while yet.”   

 

Ned nodded to give the man his acknowledgement of understanding and dismissed him from the room.

 

One quite noticeably thicker than the other. Ned opened the thicker one first.

 

_Ned,_

 

_I am happy to report that my wife and son are currently enroute to Winterfell. They took the sloop Great Falcon out of King’s Landing just today and shall put in at White Harbor in a fortnight. My wife shall expect that you or your wife will meet her and our son once they make port. No doubt Catelyn will be happy to see her sister, but I fear she will meet her a much changed woman, which you should make mention of to prepare her for. Years of miscarriages have been hard upon my poor wife, and she still clings to our son as though he were still a suckling babe._

 

_I should also warn you that your nephew has a condition which your Maester should be notified of immediately, namely that of the Shaking Sickness. I suggest your Maester stock up on plenty of leeches and dreamwine--the boy will need them from time to time. Though sometimes I believe the boy plays up his illness because he knows it will get him what he wants, but this is something I suspect rather than know for certainty. Lysa and Robert travel with our Maester Coleman but he is to return to the capital after seeing young Robert into your care at White Harbor._

 

_As to your fostering Robert, I agree that ties between the Vale and the North should be strengthened by such a proposition. Upon the conclusion of the visit my wife is to be handed the enclosed letter with my seal, unopened. The letter inside informs her of the arrangement. I have not already done so because I fear she would have refused to have left King’s Landing at all had I made mention of these plans. Before your letter I had brought up the mere possibility of our boy being fostered in general and she reacted rather badly to the idea. If she continues to put up a fight on the issue after you hand her my letter, I would ask that you remind her that her friend Petyr’s position entirely depends upon mine and the king’s good humor, which would lessen if this matter were not to be done according to my wishes. My apologies on involving you in the problems of my marriage, Ned, but I must admit that I am at my rope’s end with my lady wife and her illogical fears._

 

_I thank you for your concern about my preferences of wine, as does the King, whose interest in the quality of wine has risen considerably given a bad batch which left a sour taste in his taster’s mouth. I fear that this subject might be cause for further discussion between the three of us at a later date considering the connections with whom the sour wine has. Mayhaps we might have to encourage local vineyards to produce better wine until this sour season from across the Narrow Sea has been used up._

 

_Jon_

 

Ned contemplated the letter, he little liked being Jon’s go-between for his wife, but the news that his would-be assassin was now removed from him, Ned felt more at ease. This harsh future his children spoke of, had all depended upon Jon dying and Ned becoming Hand. If Jon could yet live, mayhaps it all would never happen. Ned then turned his attention to the shorter letter which came from Robert.

 

_Ned,_

 

_I know not why you now wish to legitimize your bastard—the seven know you need not worry with the way your wife gives you children. But I shan’t refuse you on this matter, though I will be satisfied as to at least knowing the name of the woman who caused the honorable Ned Stark to forget his vows for one night! Come to King’s Landing at your earliest convenience with the lad and before all the court I shall proclaim him a Stark or whate’er else you’d name him. Though I would advise that you let your wife and her family be aware of your intentions before doing so. We need not have that be a surprise, for we all know what dark places surprises may lead to._

 

_Mayhaps while you’re here we could discuss certain vineyards that haven’t gone sour?_

 

_Robert_

 

Ned called for Jon and Catelyn to come to his solar. He had matters to discuss with them both.


	6. Jon I

**JON**

 

He didn’t believe it possible that he could ever be more shocked than he was now. When his father had called him to his solar, he knew not what to expect. His surprise first began when he found his lord father with his lady wife. On some level he had to wonder at what her presence meant. Of late she had become less cool towards him, even managing to go so far as to begin a conversation with him about Arya and her new silent ways. Was this change in behavior due to the fact she had convinced his father that now he should be sent away from Winterfell? Could the woman bear to spare him a thought because she foresaw the day when she would not have to deal with him as coming closer? These thoughts had been going through his head as he was invited to take a seat. Jon instead approached and put his hands behind his back. He would face this decision on his fate like a man, standing up, and not like a boy.

 

“I would rather stand, if it is all the same,” said Jon with a tone of solemnity which he had learned from his father.

 

His father sighed and replied, “As you wish, though I fear you may have need of the chair once you hear what I am about to tell you.”

 

Jon steeled himself for the terrible news that was yet to be revealed. Lady Stark had not looked at him once this entire time, choosing instead to keep her glance upon her husband. His father’s face emotionless face seemed almost confirmation enough. Where was it to be? Last Hearth? Karhold? Bear Island? Flint’s Finger? All four were the furthest houses from Winterfell in the North. Or mayhaps he was being banished to the wilds of Skagos?

 

So when his father announced that Lady Stark had asked for him to be legitimized, and that he would be at the end of the line of succession after all of his other siblings, and that the King had agreed to the endeavor—provided they journey to the capital to make it so—Jon’s thoughts immediately went to that he was dreaming. The Gods were taunting him with a dream of impossibility.

 

Apparently he said as much without realizing it. “You dream not.” croaked a reply from Lady Stark, who still refused to look at him.

 

Jon finally did ascent to take the offered chair at this point, nearly falling into it as he did. Finally, after he had come to accept he was indeed awake he turned to face Lady Stark and asked, “Why, Lady Stark? Forgive me my boldness, but I feel I am owed some explanation.”

 

Lady Stark bristled slightly at his impudence--as she would call it--and he could tell she was doing everything in her power not to snap a cutting reply to him, but instead artfully answered with, “I asked it of my husband and he agreed that it should be done. What else need you know?”

 

Jon almost felt himself break at that moment, but he held it to himself. He needed to know more than that, and so he said, “To speak plainly Lady Stark, you have always loathed me and my presence. Oh, you never were inhumane, but you made sure to let me know that I was neither welcome nor wanted by you every moment of my life here. At your example, most of Winterfell’s staff followed suit for many years. Why should you then ask this of my lord father? It makes no sense at all.”

 

“I loathe you not,” she said less than convincingly. She then sighed and said, still without looking at him, but instead at her own hands which fidgeted nervously in her own lap, “It is true that I have been less than... kind towards you, but you have proven yourself to be a… considerate and honorable brother and an… affable young man. Your instinct to seek out Theon after you heard rumors of his attacking Bran and Rickon, speaks of how devoted you are to your siblings. Think you not that such devotion and loyalty should not go unrewarded?” At this last question she met his eyes at long last, and even though she had stumbled through her compliments, Jon could see she meant her words.

 

This Jon could accept, and so he turned to his father and asked, “I also ask you why, father.”

 

His father began simply, “I have told you, Lady Catelyn asked it--”

 

“No. Why, if your intentions ever inclined towards legitimizing me, did you wait until she asked it of you?” asked Jon with a small amount of fury just barely being held beneath for what seemed to be his craven of a father.

 

His father’s reply was long and obviously long thought on, but at least he managed to keep his eye contact when speaking to him. “Bringing you to Winterfell was I saw the only choice I could make at the time I came to know of your existence. You are a Stark, in blood if not name, and Starks should know Winterfell as their home. I apologize if it ever seemed it was a less than warm home to you all these years, but that was none of your doing. For you see, it was mine. Blame me, for it was my choice to raise you amongst your siblings as a true brother, that you should not know the pain of separation from them. And because of my choice, Cat has since, as you so put it, made it painfully clear that you were not welcome nor wanted by her. Yet now she seeks to make amends and to put the past behind us all. Mightn’t you do as much? Truthfully this should have been done years ago, long before you came to truly understand what it meant to be a bastard, you are correct, but I did not want to further slight her than I already had. Forgive me for playing a pitiful balancing act of hurts and slights between you both. I hoped and prayed to the Gods that she might one day come to see you for the man you are becoming rather than the babe you were born. And they at long last have answered my prayers. It is a poor apology for what you have endured, but it is the only one I can give, for it is the truth.”

 

Jon wanted to shout back that it could never amend for years of being isolated and singled out by his lady wife, of being japed about his birth by the likes of Theon Greyjoy, but something in his father’s eyes made him reconsider doing as much. And at long last, after some consideration, Jon replied with a look towards his father’s wife, “I can attempt it, if Lady Stark believes she is equal to it as well.” Lady Stark for the briefest of moments seemed to begin a twitch for a smile, but then stopped herself.

 

There was a long silence that fell between them then, which Jon broke with, “I would ask one thing further of you, father. You have long told me that you would tell me of my mother when I was older. Am I now not old enough?”

 

His father sighed before saying, “Aye, I have promised to tell you of your mother, but we shall do so when you become a man. On the eve of that day, after you have enjoyed the day for its full worth, we shall sit down and speak of your mother.”

 

“For the time being, may I not at least know if she is alive? Robb and the rest all have your lady wife. I have nothing to hold on to. May not I at least have that?” asked Jon. He would love to know more, but if he could only know one thing, this was the question he wanted answered most of all.

 

His father seemed to consider his request, and turning away from both him and his wife he spoke while looking out one of his windows in the direction of the Godswood. “She died soon after giving birth to you. You were not the cause, she had not access to a maester and your birth was... difficult. I reached her in her last moments. Her last words were to beg of me a promise to take care of you and keep you safe, ‘Promise me, Ned’ she said... And I have endeavored to do ever since.”

 

It was something Jon had to admit, truthfully more than he had hoped for. That his mother was dead, he felt aggrieved, as there would never be any reunion. But that she had loved him at once endeared him to his mother and made her loss sting all the more. As Jon recomposed himself from the o’erwhelming emotion that had o’ertaken him upon learning at least the barest of information of his mother, he took note that Lady Stark seemed as greatly affected by what had been told. And for one moment he felt some amount of pity for Lady Stark, to hear of such a moment that his father had shared with another woman, must truly cut as deep as his loss of her.

 

It was then that a damnable guard interrupted them informing them of the capture of a Night's Watch man by a nearby hold sworn to Winterfell, and the arrival of three unexpected visitors who requested to meet with his lord father.


	7. Robb I

**ROBB**

 

At the news of Jon’s legitimization Robb was ecstatic. His mother had finally come ‘round to the view that the rest of the family had come to long ago. Robb noticed Arya was especially thrilled about the news, and Sansa almost as happy for Jon by comparison, but Bran seemed distracted when congratulating his brother in blood as well as soon to be name. Robb though knew exactly what such an occasion as this called for, and once he’d cornered him by the Wolf’s pen, the pups sleeping while their mother was out hunting. Jon was paying close attention to the white pup, while a small grey pup had adopted him, demanding to be petted to sleep.

 

“We shall travel to a tavern tonight!” exlaimed Robb.

 

Jon shook his head and replied, “I think you have me confused for Theon.”

 

“No, honestly, we should sneak out of the castle and celebrate your taking the Stark name. There does not have to be any whores--frankly I wouldn’t know what to do with one if I got one--but drinking fine ale?” offered Robb enticingly.

 

Jon simply answered saying, “Why leave? We could do that here in the castle, and the ale would probably taste better.”

 

“Yeah, but sneaking out is half the fun! Where’s your adventurous spirit? And besides father would likely find us if we stayed here,” countered Robb.

 

“Mayhaps he would, mayhaps he mightn’t. We could always go to the First Keep,” a clear smile stretching across Jon’s face as he said as much.

 

Robb gulped at the locale given to him by Jon’s challenge, echoing “The first keep?”

 

Jon then childed Robb, asking, “Now where’s your adventurous spirit?”

 

“You’ll rue the day you challenged that of me.” Robb shook his head on it.

 

Robb and Jon then agreed that after the family had gone to bed they would meet between the stables and the Bell Tower so they could then sneak into the kitchens and swipe a small barrel of ale, which they then would carry as inconspicuously as they could all the way across the castle to the First Keep.

 

At the evening meal Robb had decided to sit across from the three visitors to Winterfell who had arrived unannounced two days prior. They were the Reeds of the Greywater Watch: Lord Howland, who was father’s friend and a fellow veteran of Robert’s Rebellion, Jojen, his son who was of Sansa’s age, and Meera, his daughter who was of his and Jon’s age. Robb was doing his best as the future Lord of Winterfell to be an affable host to the two Reeds closest to him in age, while Lord Howland and his father chattered away with his mother. Robb liked the Reeds, Jojen was perhaps a tad too serious, making Robb think he could give Jon a run for his money in a grave expression contest. He apparently though seemed to take interest in speaking with Bran in hushed whispers throughout the meal, who had taken a large interest in the new visitors--which made sense as in that other future he had travelled North with them, but these were not the Reeds as he knew them.

 

Jojen’s sister was the day to his night, like he was to Jon, where she was all good cheer and smiles. There was something to her smile that disarmed Robb. He didn’t know what it was, but he put it aside when he realized he had hardly touched his food, instead spending most of the meal observing and japing with the girl crannogman. Apparently Jon had taken notice of this for later when they had met between the stables and the bell tower.

 

“Was the food not to your liking this evening?” asked Jon with an almost sly look.

 

“I had other thoughts concerning my mind.” answered Robb simply, playing at being contrite.

 

“Thoughts of a certain lady?” asked Jon

 

Robb was anxious, and eager to start, “And you say I confuse you for Theon... Are we going to get this barrel or not?”

 

Jon and Robb then quietly snuck into the kitchen and found one of the lighter barrels, obviously already started, and together they carried it out of the deserted kitchen. Once in the courtyard they stuck close to the shadows along the walls of the courtyard, on the chance that any person should look out. It took them probably twice as long to get to the First Keep than if they had just walked brazenly through the middle of the moonlit courtyard. The First Keep was a squat round fortress of well-worn stone, decorated with gargoyles and surrounded by a lichfield where the loyal servants of the Kings of Winter had been laid to rest. Behind the First Keep was the Broken Tower. Upon reaching the door of the First Keep, they put down the barrel and fidgeted with the large oak doors to the keep. Luckily after some force from them both, the First Keep’s doors had opened with an echoing groan that gave both boys a moment of pause. Each remembered tales Old Nan had spun of this place, saying that at night the spirits of the Old Kings of Winter who lacked their sword by their statue in the crypts walked these halls, which was why the First Keep had been abandoned and sealed. Taking notice then of each other’s reticence to enter the building first they then laughed at their boyish fears and pick up the barrel and entered the dark keep. The first floor was a dark gloomy, and covered in cobwebs to boot, after finding an ancient staircase, they then situated themselves on a landing next to a half-broken window. The moonlight streaming through the window casting a light on the leaf and dust covered landing.

 

As they sat next to one another, the barrel between them, they then pulled out the wooden cups they had swiped at the same time as the barrel and began the evening of drink with a toast to family. They matched each other drink for drink, entering into a kind of unconscious competition that they had always engaged in since probably their toddler years.

 

As they came to the end of their second cups and began to refill for their third ones, Robb suddenly had a realization, “You know, soon I shall not be able to call you Snow.”

 

“I hope you can break the habit. I know how stubborn you can be once you get an idea in your head,” teased Jon.

 

Robb thought long and hard for a moment before replying, “I am not stubborn, I am simply persistent.”

 

They had just begun their third cup of ale each when footsteps were heard coming from the first floor. Suddenly the easy revelling spirit fled them as quickly as it had arrived. They sat, frozen in fear as the footsteps came closer, taking their time, as though its owner or owners felt they had right to be here, it was soon that a small dark form was seen at the foot of the steps. In the utter darkness it was impossible to tell if the somewhat human looking form was alive or not. Robb stared into the darkness, the form having stopped as if to listen or ponder what way to go. It was in that silence that Robb noticed he could hear Jon’s breathing, rather loudly. Robb gave Jon a look and pantomimed closing his mouth to mute the sound. It was then that Robb once again heard the footsteps move on, past the staircase continuing deeper into the first floor’s hall.

 

It probably was due to the amount of ale they had drunk, but both Robb and Jon remained motionless until the footsteps had completely faded into the distance. After a few minutes of silence, and frightened stares, both boys of four and ten began to recompose themselves with nervous smiles, dismissing what they had just witnessed to nerves and too much ale. Just as they were beginning to settle back into an ease of themselves a person appeared out of the shadows, startling them both, and causing Robb to drop his cup and spill what was left of his third cup of ale.

 

“I thought I saw someone in the darkness’,” exclaimed the girl. It was Meera Reed. She stood half in the moonlight and half in darkness. The moon making her seem paler and yet more alive with some kind of primeval energy. She wore her brown hair long, it reaching to almost her mid-back, held back from her face by some kind of green cloth. She was dressed in green tunic with the emblem of a black lizard lion on it, above what appeared to be green trews with brown boots. O’ertop her tunic she wore what appeared to be a lizard lion skin vest, which Robb wondered if her father had made for her after killing one of those famed beasts of the Neck. She gave one of her disarming smiles that had Robb find any words he could have thought to say in response caught in his throat.

 

“You’re welcome to join us,” was Jon’s immediate reply, casting a sideways glance to Robb that he obviously thought was discreet but in truth was anything but.

 

“To what are you two drinking?” asked Meera as she took a seat on the step below them.

 

“That my brother at long last is to become a Stark in name as well as blood,” Robb mentioned rather proudly as he put an arm around Jon and then proposed, “Let’s toast to it again!”

 

“Alas, I have no cup,” Meera mockingly replied.

 

“Youcoulsharmi!” exclaimed Robb, his words offer bursting forth in a jumbled mix of words and syllables, as he offered up his own cup, after picking it up, wiping it off, and refilling it.

 

“Thank you, you didn’t have to offer” was Meera’s gracious reply as she took a sip of the ale before returning the cup to Robb. Robb took the cup back from her, their fingers just briefly touching for the most fleeting of moments.

 

“It’s the least I could do,” answered Robb, his chest puffing out slightly and his voice attempting to sound older than he was. Jon couldn’t help but snigger in response, and Robb playfully punched his little brother in the shoulder to quiet him.

 

Meera smirked and then japed, “You two remind me of Jojen and me.”

 

“I imagine most siblings who are close are as personable,” added Jon

 

“Not all unfortunately. My mother has a sister, and they are like oil and water--neither can abide the other,” added Meera with a hint of regret.

 

“How sad,” added Robb, feeling obligated to say something.

 

“What brings you and your brother to Winterfell?” asked Jon, he obviously knowing the answer from the other future to have been a dream prophecy. But that should not have taken place until a year from now.

 

Meera chose her words carefully, obviously unsure of how much to tell them of her true reason for coming to Winterfell, “My little brother is rather gifted, and he would like to pledge his gift in honor of your house.”

 

Robb did not hear one word for herself in that reply and so asked, “And you?”

 

Meera smiled and then said, “I go where my brother goes. He’ll always be my babe of a brother, no matter how old he becomes, and he needs me to protect him.”

 

“Won’t your father and mother miss you both, though?” asked Robb

 

Meera took the cup back from Robb and took a swig before saying, “Aye, I know they will, but he’s my brother and he needs me.”

 

“To brothers” offered Jon as a toast, and Meera and Robb added their voices to the toast, each taking a drink in turn.

 

They spent several more drinks in each other’s company, eventually becoming so giddy on drink that they could hardly keep quiet. Meera, despite her crannogman size, seemed to hold her ale pretty well and was not as far gone as Robb and Jon were when they had finished the barrel. It was then that they agreed it was probably best to return to their beds for the night. And so half-stumbling, and half-walking the three proceeded to leave the landing they had taken perch on.

 

When they arrived at the bottom of the stairs they heard in the distance the Bell Tower chime three times, and a breeze begin to blow and waft through the hall. Robb tripped and fell over something in the dark as they walked down the hallway to the great oak doors to exit the keep. Jon and Meera had then turned around to help him up, but instead of completeing the action they instead stood frozen, staring at something that was behind him. He stood up and turned to see what had caused them to freeze with fear. And that’s when he saw it.

 

At the end of the opposite end of the hallway was the figure of a woman--at least it looked like a woman, it was hard to tell from that distance--but that was not the most amazing thing about her. Robb swor from that day until his last that that woman was a pale white color completely that he could see straight through. Upon noticing their looks, the figure turned to look at them, and then not a moment later seemed to charge straight for them--her feet never once appearing, though her footsteps could be heard coming hard and fast towards them. And suddenly an unearthly sound began to eminate from the spectral woman as she charged at them three. Robb immediately broke out of his frozen fear state, grabbed both Jon and Meera by their wrists and then turning tail and making a run of it at the oak doors. Soon the three of them were outside, attempting to shut and seal the he great oak doors once again. When they had they thought they heard and felt pounding on the doors, and backed away at once from the possessed doors and right into their lord father.


	8. Bran II

**BRAN II**

 

Bran had been ecstatic when he had heard the news of the arrival of Jojen and Meera. When he had first seen them with their father, he’d been just how impressed with how they favored their father, Howland. He was a short man with green eyes, long brown hair worn to his shoulders, and a close-cropped beard that had a few streaks of white in it already. After his initial excitement passed, he soon took note that neither Meera nor Jojen approached him and he had to remind himself for a second that they were meeting him for the first time. In the future that was, he had not met them until a year from now at the Harvest Feast when they’d come to swear loyalty on their father’s behalf to King Robb--or so they had said until he’d become privy to Jojen’s secret ability.

 

Bran’s heart skipped a beat when he saw Meera--she was younger now, mayhaps she might… wait he was younger too, so she still was twice his age. Damn.

 

Jojen had apparently between his current look and when Bran would have later met him, had begun to enter his awkward adolescence, but now he looked no more than a boy just a few years older than Bran, but obviously still a boy. After being introduced a second time, Jojen had then took to cornering Bran to speak to him alone in the Godswood. There Jojen this time cut straight to the point, mentioning his greensight upfront, instead of spending weeks and months of working up to mentioning it. Jojen quite seriously said that he had received a dream of a direwolf pulling him out of a dark pool of water he had been drowning in. Further dreams involved the three-eyed raven that had saved his life when he’d been a child and given him the gift of greensight, which had told him to find Bran. Bran was so unaccustomed to Jojen being forthright in his dower manner, that he at first wondered if Jojen had not a younger brother whom had been sent instead of him.

 

After his explanations had been given, Bran then began to wonder if the reticence of the Jojen whom he had known had actually been due to his relationship with Bran--that Bran had been too eager to understand things and frustrated by his limitations, that Jojen had to hold back for Bran’s betterment--now the boot was on the other foot. Bran felt he had to tread carefully with what he said to Jojen--who was eager, perhaps over-eager, to learn how to better employ his gift, as the raven had promised him Bran would do. One of their first objectives that Bran tried to help him understand was that he himself was still learning--Bran was quite proud with what he had accomplished and managed to have re-learned in as short of a time as he had, but he had yet to re-connect with Winterfell’s heart tree, which he felt was the part of his education as a greenseer he needed to pick up once again, and that Jojen would find the most helpful. But that required Weirwood paste, and Bran did not know how to make any. In the meantime, Jojen and Bran would spend their time mostly talking through his past dreams, teasing out possible interpretations.

 

When they were not alone, Jojen returned to having a quiet reluctance to speak with others, which made Bran wonder at how quickly the boy had switched between traits. The only time this reluctance seemed to fade was when Rickon had demanded to hear the story of the Knight of the Laughing Tree from both Jojen and Meera--saying Old Nan did not know the tale, and he so desperately wanted to hear the tale again. At the mention of the Harrenhal Tournment’s mystery knight, Bran noticed his father had paled while Howland instead smiled and offered to tell the tale to Rickon and anyone else who cared to hear it. This had garnered the attention of not just Rickon, but Meera and Jojen--who added that their father told it better than they did, his mother, Old Nan--who was eager to learn a story she had not yet added to her repertoire, Robb, Jon, Sansa, and even Arya. Bran listened but instead took most of his time observing how his father listened to the story, the icy exterior seemingly having melted completely, and a small smile barely hid as he listened to Howland expertly tell the tale. And suddenly Bran thought he understood why the other Jojen had been so insistent that he must have heard the tale hundreds of times. Bran also took note that Robb had sat next to Meera, and kept giving her odd looks when tiny lulls in the story occurred and he thought no one was looking. And it was in that instant Bran began to wonder what his brother thought of Meera, and a gnawing feeling took root in his stomach.

 

Due to Lord Reed’s arrival, father had delayed riding out to pass judgment on the Night Watch deserter, but four days after proved that the matter could not be delayed another day, and so that morning he, Jory, Jojen, Lord Reed, Ser Rodrik and his two eldest squires, Emrik and Skae, all accompanied his father to witness the execution. Theon was still in his sick bed, and at this rate was likely ne’er to leave it again, Bran thought. Robb and Jon were back at Winterfell, cleaning the stables for having broken into the First Keep a few nights prior. Neither of his older brothers had told him what they’d been doing in the First Keep, each adopting a look mixed with fear and guilt whenever he brought up the subject.

 

When they arrived at the small holdfast in the Wolfswood, Bran decided to get a better look at the man that he was to see executed twice. The first time he had only watched from a distance, and had never gotten a good look at the man’s face. But now when Bran looked at the man before him, he froze, for it had been the man of his last dream. Immediately the dream which had been so confusing at first suddenly made sense, and he had to speak to his father.

 

He managed to pull his father aside after he had finished speaking to the man whose holdfast they were at, who had captured the man in the first place, “Father, you can’t execute him here.”

 

“Where would you have me pass judgment on him, then?” asked his father incredulously.

 

Bran answered with the barest of pauses, full confident in what he had learned from his dream, “The Godswood, in Winterfell. I saw it in a dream… it has to be done there, right before the heart tree.”

 

His father gave him a look of disbelief, “You’d have me drag this deserter to Winterfell, when he could possibly escape our hold of him along the say, all for a dream?”

 

Bran insisted now. “You know they’re more than just dreams.”

 

His father sighed and then turned to Jory and said, “Bound him up better so he doesn’t run away. We’re taking him to Winterfell for judgment.”

 

Jory seemed confused by this order, but complied nonetheless “Aye milord.

 

“Problem, Ned?” asked Howland as Ned remounted his horse.

 

“There’s been a change of scene.” replied his father, and the ride back to Winterfell commenced. Along the way, Bran rode his pony next to the deserter, who was tied by a rope to Jory and his horse. He wanted to draw the man into conversation, but Jory eyed him sideways, as though to say it were a bad idea. This time there was no race to the bridge, no discovery of a dead animal, and the late summer snow that had fallen a few days earlier had melted away. And yet it all seemed so familiar. They reached Winterfell without incident and upon coming to the gates of the Godswood, the Night’s Watch man seemed to freeze for a moment, as though tremulous to walk past the entry into the Godswood, but Jory gave him a shove, and the man crossed the boundary in that one movement. Once on the other side, he stopped, hunched over for what seemed an odd amount of time. When Jory had passed him and pulled on his rope, the man seemed to recover and oddly walked quite differently than he had before entering the Godswood. He now seemed resigned to whatever fate would meet him in the Godswood, when before he’d come across defeated and dejected. He was brought to before the heart tree, and a small wooden block was found and placed in front of the man of the Night Watch.

 

It was then that his father began the proceedings, “Gared of the Night Watch, you have been found to be a deserter of your brothers. Do you have anything to say in your defense?”

 

Gared spoke wildly, “You’re all fools for just sitting here. You should be getting as far south as you can go. The white devils walk the snows again, and them and their wights shall come for us all.”

 

The rest of Gared’s sentencing was performed and Gared was then told to kneel and lay his head . As his father called for Ice, the Stark Valaryian steel great sword, from Jory, suddenly the man’s eyes turned as red as a Weirwood’s sap and he spoke in a voice at once deeper and more ancient sounding than he normally did. Bran noticed that Emrik, Skae, Jojen and his father all noticed the shift in Gared. His father however continued with his task.

 

“Go North young Bran Stark. Go North Jojen Reed, and you shall finally meet the three-eyed raven--”

 

But Ice silenced him before he could say anything else. He head fell off the block and rolled, falling right into the dark pool in front of the heart tree before anyone could fetch it. And it might have been Bran’s imagination, but he thought he saw red sap drip down from the eyes of the weirwood.


	9. Arya I

**ARYA**

 

As much as she hated what Theon would do, given the chance, she hated seeing him like this. He was neither alive nor dead, instead existing in a strange twilight between the two. And knowing that she was all the cause of his suffering increasingly weighed and gnawed away at her mind each time she came to assist Maester Luwin in his duties.

 

This wasn’t how it was supposed to have happened—he should have died but now and it would have all been over. But she now realized she had left far too many variables open to chance and assumed far too much.

 

Theon’s getting sick was supposed to have come on gradually, not all at once. And it was supposed to have been a distraction from the real killer--the infected knife she had swapped out of Maester Luwin’s blood letting bag when she’d purposely knocked into him. But no, the kraken had to go and drink all of the sick sap infected wine she’d planted in his room in one night so then the timing and attention of everyone was off. They were paying closer attention to Theon, and so they had “saved” his life.

 

Arya knew just how fruitless a task Maester Luwin had undertook. He was simply wasting all his supplies trying to fight back a blood infection that would never completely go away. The knife he had used had been soaked in the pulp of jyman’s root, which she had heard as Cat of the canals from a sailor say was almost as good as a poison when a person came in contact with it, and stubborn to cures. A cure could be easily given, she had later learned from the Kindly Man--it was simply rare in Westeros, but it could be provided to Theon if she chose to name it. Looking at the pale, gaunt and sweating form of Theon in front of her, she was nearly tempted to do so. He certainly would smell better if she did, and that alone would make bearing his presence better. Yet she had already decided her course on killing him, hadn’t she? Besides it was not known that the blood infection was purposeful and not simply a horrible accident. To give a name to the cure would implicate her complicitly, and how was she to help Bran or Sansa if Joffrey were to still come to Winterfell for whatever reason? How would she finish her list?

 

Theon had to die. She only wished it could be as simple as her killing him directly and ending this unneeded misery without obviously implicating her. Maester Luwin watched Theon with a bird’s eye worthy of an Arryn, as well as all the actions of her and her siblings when they assisted. He hadn’t been told that they’d tried to kill Theon--that would have required telling him of the future. He instead had been merely told that the three of them had been involved in a “childish practical joke” that had gone too far concerning Theon. And so, Arya had to live with helping Theon suffer for what was likely to be the rest of his life: however long his body could endure before finally giving out in the end.

 

After his chamber pot had been emptied, Maester Luwin dismissed her from his assistance. This was the earliest in the Maester’s morning routine check on the boy that he had ever done so. Arya concluded this was likely due to him beginning to finally admit to himself just exactly what the islander’s fate would be.

 

Arya had some time then, before her lessons with Septa Mordane. Sansa had begun sharing how boring and silly such lessons were, and doing so had allowed Arya to feel her sister better understood how she had long felt. The only negative effect from such an acknowledgment came with her elder sister’s relationship with her two former compatriots: Jeyne Poole and Beth Cassel. The two girls seemed to find the way that Sansa and Arya had grown closer to at first be an excuse to grow closer themselves, but as the days stretched on into weeks, and now came close to being a moon, Arya could tell that both girls missed their silly friend they had had in Sansa. Too bad Sansa didn’t seem to be in much of the mood to giggle about a stable boy or Emrik Slate--whom Arya had overheard once Beth Cassel in particular had set her cap upon; she forgot whether it was in this time or the last. Arya decided to let her sister have the company of her former best friends all to herself, and miss out on the dull lesson on needlework completely. Instead she decided to go to the practice yard and watch Robb and Jon spar with Emrik and Skae, and Bran and Jojen (she assumed) matching themselves against Jymyr and Xandyr. However when she came to the courtyard she found it abandoned saved for Emrik, Jon, Robb, and to her greatest surprise, Meera Reed.

 

Jon and Emrik were going at one another decently enough, though she thought she saw Jon have a slack wrist at the wrong moment. But on the whole her brother held his own against the older black haired youth.

 

Arya didn’t know what to think of the crannog girl, truth be told she hadn’t even considered a thought beyond the gratitude she held for the other Meera who had looked after Bran on his journey North--but this wasn’t that Meera. What surprised her most was that she was sparring with Robb--and not doing too badly. And Robb wasn’t japing about her abilities, but instead fretting about how to o’ercome them. A pronged spear and small practice dagger were her weapons of choice against Robb’s practice sword. She watched the leithe girl work, making the most of her weapons, finding versatile and seemingly improvisational ways of using her spear as a defensive rod to suddenly using it offensively to smack Robb on the wrist of his sword hand, causing his grip on the practice sword to falter and Meera to lunge for the “kill” with her practice dagger pointing at his gut, and her twirling the spear in her hand so that she could better grab it to hold it in the life threatening position that indicated her kill. She had defeated Robb!

 

“Well done.” admitted Robb with a noticeable gulp.

 

“You as well. But underestimate not the weapon your enemy chooses. Ser Dayne did that to my father, to his peril,” cautioned Meera.

 

Robb wordlessly nodded his head and took his leave to take a rest. Meera began to look on to Jon and Emrik’s sword battle at this point. Missing how eagerly Arya rushed up to take on Meera herself. It had been a long time since she’d held Needle, and while Robb’s practice sword was bulkier than she was used to, she thought she could give it a go, nonetheless.

 

When Meera looked to see who her next challenger was, she smiled and asked, “Do you even know how to fight with a hand knife?”

 

Robb, who had situated himself leaning against the wall after having taken a long drink of water out of the public trough, through his encouragement behind Arya’s “spirit”.

 

“Watch out you make not the same mistake I did, Meera, she’s a scrappy survivor--though she doesn’t look it.”

 

And so the sparring began. Arya knew within a few minutes that she was likely to lose--the sword felt wrong in her hands, but it was the only one she had available to her. Meera was fighting with what she was used to, and so was like to win on that alone. Still Arya managed to get in a few shocks to the older girl’s system--once grazing the edge of her practice sword extremely close to the other girl’s stomach. When the spar’s ultimate conclusion came to its foregone conclusion both Meera and Arya exchanged compliments and handshakes.

 

“You did well, little sister. Too bad that sword seems ill-suited to your hand,” commented Jon, with a knowing look. For a moment she almost thought he meant Needle, but then she remembered she hadn’t told anyone about Needle. She had thought to have done so might have made mother angry again at Jon (even if it had been another him and not the Jon she was with now), not to mention if she mentioned Needle then she would have to mention her kills to father and mother… and that she would not speak of. She had enough sense to know that to mention anything about killing--even in self-defense--would have only put even more restrictions on her. And Arya had enough of tending to Theon and listening to Septon Chayle without adding even more to that list. She was brought back to the present as Jon patted her on the shoulder and left her--she had completely missed what he had said. Robb and Meera had begun to talk amongst themselves at this point, Robb asking more about her spear, and Arya decided that mayhaps it might be time to consider speaking to Mikken about making Needle anew. She would have loved to have received the sword again from Jon, but she doubted that such a parting gift would be given now that he was to become a Stark.


	10. Eddard II

**EDDARD**

 

Eddard stared into the quiet hearth of his solar contemplating everything that had changed. According to his youngest children, at this point in the other future, he would have been preparing for Robert’s visit to Winterfell. A visit that would set into motion everything that came after by his accepting the position of Hand, but now that future was no more, or at least had been detained. Eddard knew not if it mattered whether Jon Arryn died now or later, Robert might still ask him to be Hand, and then he would have to split his family up--which had led to their ultimate downfall. What was it his grandmother had said before his father had sent him to the Vale? He recalled the memory:

 

His grandmother had been a stern old woman, and in some respects he took after her. When the family had gathered to wish him well on his departure to the Eyrie, he had been but an eight year old boy, his grandmother had looked down and her gray eyes had met his own, saying words that had etched themselves in his memory, “When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies but the pack survives.”

 

His mother, heavy with Benjen at the time, had then tried to soothe his grandmother’s words for him, saying “Ned, my sweet boy, a pack is made up of more than just wolves.”

 

Ned had agreed with his mother, going on to list the sigils of the Northern houses, determined in his boyish desire to have the chance to please his mother at showing his ability to know the Northern houses, but she had interrupted him to add, “All of these belong to the pack, ‘tis true, but think on my words while you are away, sweetling.”

 

It hadn’t been until many years later that he finally had grasped what his mother had been trying to tell him. That had been the last time he’d seen his mother--she had died while he had been in the Vale, his grandmother soon after.

 

During the rebellion he had come to understand though his grandmother’s words as well, as both Brandon and Lyanna had turned lone wolf in the South of all places. Now this other future proved that even he had eventually ignored his grandmother’s words. It would be different this time. He must make sure that his family stuck together, of that he vowed. They were the wolves of their sigil, and a pack apart was no pack at all. This decision weighed heavy on his mind when Howland visited his solar.

 

“My son has begun making plans for the trip North.”

 

Likely due to temporary idiocy, he had asked why his son was planning to go fruther north.

 

Howland gave a look of surprise and said, “Did you not hear the words spoken before your own Weirwood tree?”

 

“The man was raving mad,” Eddard countered.

 

“His eyes went red--as red as the sap that drips from a weirwood’s eyes for a moment.”

 

Ned paused, unsure of how to respond--he had not seen the man’s face after hearing what he had thought was the man’s last words. Truly Ned had thought the man had lost himself in his final moments--and speaking of going North just after he had told everyone to go as farth South as they could, sounded like madness to Ned.

 

Ned did not know what to believe, but if Howland had set his mind to help his son with this journey he would not stop him, “If you believe the gods have spoken to your son, then I wish him the best of luck on his journey.”

 

“He shall not go alone. I intend to travel with him. Winter is coming, as your house words remind us, and I would not have either of our sons too far north when it finally does arrive. Let them go north to seek out this three-eyed raven--but they shall not stay to the north to see winter arrive. No, ‘tis best to leave now while late summer is still amongst us.”

 

Eddard was speechless for but a moment before asking, “You intend to take Bran with you?”

 

Howland answered simply, “Your son was asked before mine, Ned. Jojen assumes that they shall travel together.”

 

Eddard knew winter was coming sooner than his friend suspected, they might make it to the raven’s cave, but Winter would come and go before he would let either of their sons go, he suspected and then Bran would be the lone wolf in winter… flanked by lizard lions, surely, but still without his pack.. Then a voice reminding him of his mother interjected many questions against his grandmother’s words: Had he not found more members of his pack in the Vale? Could not his son do as well with the Reeds? “Bran will not leave Winterfell... for the time being” was Eddard’s decision on the matter. He could not deny, knowing what his son spoke of the greenseer and Children of the Forest that he must eventually go, but they could wait… his son had just so recently left them from his perspective… they could wait.

 

Howland to his credit did not challenge him on this. He simply nodded his head and instead changed the focus of the discussion, “I have a favor to ask of you, Ned, Meera will want to follow us on our journey north, but I would not have her go any further north than she need to.”

 

Eddard could see where this was leading, “I would be honored to look after your daughter while you and Jojen undertake this… journey. But why I ask does she not return to the Neck?—not that she is not welcome here in Winterfell.” No, his eldest son was making sure she felt herself welcome indeed--it was hard not to notice.

 

Howland’s tone was serious, but by the end a small smile creeped onto his face. “She has learned everything she can about the Neck--there’s nothing else for her to learn there. You see, I would have my children understand more than just the way of the crannogmen. I would not have them come out of the Neck only to be ignorant of the ways and means other men live and behave. It would prove especially hard if they say ever decided to attend a tourney where they might not be so lucky to find such good friends willing to help them howe’er they can.”

 

Eddard smiled at the memory which turned bittersweet as he briefly remembered his siblings’ fates. But he did not allow that to come through, instead choosing to press forward by countering, “I believe your daughter has found friends amongst Robb and Jon.”

 

Howland smiled and said, “And I would not have her give up on continuing to explore where such friendships with your son and nephew might lead her.”

 

At the mention of Jon’s true relationship to him Eddard felt he’d finally arrived at Howland’s true purpose for seeking him out in his solar.

 

He was proved right when Howland asked, “Why do you seek to legitimize him as your son, Ned?”

 

“If word has reached you in the Neck…” The Neck was usually the last place to hear of such matters. Had the Tullys heard word of it already? Catelyn and he had been going over and over how to break the news in a way which would not offend their sense of family or honor, finally settling upon letters from her which spoke of Jon’s own sense of family, duty, and honor--along with a few lines about Cat’s original belief that the seven had demanded this of her for healing Bran. But they had yet to have been sent. Had Jon and Robert been unable to keep their mouths closed?

 

Howland assuaded his fears, “Fear not, I did not learn of this until Meera told me the night we found the three of them rushing out of the First Keep.”

 

Eddard remembered the night well, he’d been a mix of emotions: happy of hearing of Robb’s enthusiasm to celebrate for Jon like a true brother would, proud of Jon for talking Robb out of sneaking out of the castle, upset at their thievery and breaking into the First Keep, and annoyed at their drunken insistence on the spectre of a woman walking its halls. Howland had simply spoken with Meera after that night, while Eddard had assigned his sons to help out with the stables for a week or two until they’d earned through labor the barrel of ale they had taken without permission.

 

“You answer my question not,” reminded Howland once Eddard had obviously seemed distracted to the crannogman.

 

Eddard took a deep breath before saying, “To protect him, Howland. Once he’s a Stark it need not matter who sired him off my sister. I’ve told Catelyn the truth of the matter, and she agrees.”

 

“I see…” was his response. Howland then gave a brief pause for a slight smile and added, “I’m gladdened to hear that you finally told your wife the truth, my friend, though sorry it took you as long as it has.”

 

It was after this that his crannogman friend rose to take his leave, turning when he came to the door of the solar saying simply one thing before departing, “And tell your son he need not wait for my permission, but hers.”

 

“If it is what they both desire, then I would not stand in their way, but I will not force the matter either.”

 

Howland smiled wryly and left the room.

 

Eddard had to hand it to Howland, he knew how to leave a room. Eddard contemplated his offer. If Robb and Meera were to approach him and Cat of desiring such a union, he would give his full blessing, and knowing Howland would as well, made him consider the possibility more. He wasn’t as sure of Cat though. Cat didn’t seem to think much of her son’s developing affections. But then Eddard had always suspected she’d intended to have their son marry some important Riverlord’s daughter--or mayhaps another alliance between great houses like his marriage to her had been. But Eddard saw the benefit in seeking potential gooddaughter from amongst his bannermen. Though he had married south he did not think his Northern lords would tolerate several generations of such behavior before beginning to suspect that the Starks had become more Southron than Northern. Rickard Karstark had already tried earlier in Robb’s childhood to woo him with his daughter--but instead Rickard had found she had spent more of her time with Jon. The visit had ended rather quickly after that, and news of Alys Karstark’s betrothal to Daryn Hornwood was widely known not long after.

 

No matter what the outcome of this development with Meera, Eddard had to consider Robb’s future wife and future Lady of Winterfell. He hoped that at least in this time he could have his choice of wife not determined over the need of a bridge to cross while he was in King’s Landing. Which reminded Ned, he still needed to write to Robert about his and Jon’s visit to the capital. He was determined to make short. After he was secure in knowing that Lysa was here in Winterfell with young Robert, he and Jon would then take a boat from White Harbor to King’s Landing, and so he committed himself to such a plan on paper. Such a brief separation to officially bring Jon more firmly into the pack must be tolerated and besides, Robert and Jon were members of Ned’s own pack, and he could not put off for forever speaking about the viper’s pit they lived in.


	11. Catelyn I

**CATELYN**

 

Catelyn hated traveling by carriage, but she knew it was the only way her sister would expect to travel with her young son and husband’s position as Hand of the King. Carriages had always made Catelyn feel nauseous, not to mention defenseless, and the Stark carriage was quite ancient and rarely used, that it felt quite rickety as every bump and jostle was felt and thrust her and Sansa about in its compartments. Maester Luwin had chosen to ride with the driver, leaving Septa Mordane in charge of looking after Theon back in Winterfell. He would also be spending the trip restocking supplies that had been used by the sick Greyjoy. The last time the carriage had been used was when it had been to send for Catelyn and the infant Robb to travel from Riverrun at the end of the rebellion, and before that it hadn’t been used since the time of the five she-wolves of Winterfell.

 

To put her mind off her turning stomach, Catelyn thought more on what she had learned from her four youngest children. She could still hardly believe that they had “traversed time” as Sansa had put it, but Arya’s description of the Trident and its surrounding hills and forests had helped the matter somewhat, and further description of her great-grandfather’s ruin of a castle, Harrenhall, had proved it enough for Catelyn at the time, but the more she thought on it, could it have been that Arya had simply read those things in a book? That this entire “future” they had concocted as an elaborate ruse? But then why would they mention their father’s deaths or Robb’s, or even hers? That alone had sent a chill down her spine and been what had finally convinced her her children told the truth--they would not jape about her dying.

 

Catelyn was brought back from her thoughts as a particularly large ditch had the carriage tipping to her side and sent Sansa right into her. Apologizing, Sansa pulled herself off of her mother as soon as she was able. Catelyn didn’t know how her sister would respond to such a carriage ride home. Perhaps she could convince Eddard to have a better road constructed between the King’s Road and White Harbor--enough travel between the two existed to warrant such an expense, and if it held a small toll it could even enrich their coffers, and make traveling by carriage much easier.

 

Thinking on her sister made Catelyn think back to what Sansa had said of Lysa. That she had grown quite paranoid and was blindly in love with Pyter, to the point that when Pyter had shown Sansa some attention--which she most certainly did not approve of--that Lysa had tried to push her daughter out the Moon Door! But that had been another Lysa. Mayhaps before Jon Arryn died she wasn’t as paranoid? She hardly believed that either Pyter or Lysa would kill the old man, but her daughter insisted she’d admitted to the crime before Pyter had pushed her to her death. Well, at least now Lysa would not have had time to have done the deed and mayhaps some sense of the little sister who had followed her every footstep when younger was still there, just waiting for the embrace of family to help her come out. She could not hate her sister, she was family--she could very easily believe that she had been misled in that other future--with her death, father’s death and Brynden and Edmure’s capture, she could very well imagine what sort of paranoia her sister might build herself up to. If anything Pyter came out looking all the worse, for he had or would misuse his sister’s misguided love to his advantage--to think that all these years he still pinned after her like the little boy who had challenged Brandon, Catelyn thought that had ended after that, but apparently not. He was her true concern, for when Ned and their nephew traveled to King’s Landing he would be there…

 

“Mother, we’re coming up to White Harbor!” exclaimed Sansa as she looked out the window with the excitement of a girl that Catelyn noticed she had failed to see in her daughter in over a moon.

 

White Harbor was a clean, well-ordered, and thriving city. Its name Catelyn had suspected came from the white-washed stone its buildings and walls were all built out of. Sansa adored traveling down to the largest city of the North, commenting that she was glad to finally see it for herself. Apparently in that other life her daughter claimed to have lived, she had seen more of the South than of the North. As the carriage and guards came in to the city they were met by the Lord of White Harbor himself--too rotund to sit a horse he greeted them jovially at the gate.

 

“I’m quite glad to see my Lady and her lady daughter have arrived safe and sound, though not the worse for wear, given the state of the roads. The hospitality of White Harbor is yours, and I invite you to dine at New Castle this evening after you and your Lady sister and son have reunited.”

 

“I thank you for your hospitality Lord Wyman. We would be honored to break bread with you this evening. Pray tell me if you have heard whether the sloop Great Falcon has come into dock?”

 

“Aye, it’s in the outer harbor--far too large a ship for the inner harbor,” and he continued on giving instructions to both the lady and to Hullen, Winterfell’s master of horse, who was the only man in the castle who knew how to drive the old carriage.

 

Catelyn took her leave of Wyman with a promise to speak more over dinner, which Wyman promised would include all the delicacies a visit such as hers required. Catelyn simply was happy that after so much discomfort of travelling for the past eight days and horrible rations, she’d be able to have a decent meal and a good night’s rest before beginning the next eight days of torture.

 

It was late afternoon, and the setting sun made the scene look all the more like a painting or a stained glass window. The outer harbor was located outside the city walls by the ancient Stark built castle that was the Wolf’s Den--which had since the Manderlys built New Castle had become a prison. It provided more room for larger ships to drop anchor and then row their cargo to shore in a skiff or dingy. It was separated from the inner harbor by the city walls and a jetty. After reaching as far as the carriage could go, Catelyn eagerly exited the carriage with Sansa and they walked from the road down the beach to the wooden dock. There she saw her sister, bidding the oarsmen be careful handling her chests and luggage that they had just rowed to shore.

 

Immediately Catelyn was struck by just how… fat… Lysa had become. She had known her sister had had trouble losing weight from her pregnancies, but she seemed to have forgotten--or not heard--of just how many she must have had in the past fourteen years, given her size. She wouldn’t hold a candle to Lord Manderly, but Catelyn still remembered the thin rail of a girl Lysa had been in her youth--and comparing the two, the plump woman looked nothing like the girl of old. Her sister had her hair done up in a fancy Southron style, with the extra length of her auburn hair contained in a hairnet of what Catelyn suspected to be strewn with sapphires that matched the Arryn blue dress she wore. Immediately Catelyn was reminded of Sansa’s story of the amethyst hair net she had worn that had been the murder weapon of Joffrey Baratheon, but she then put that thought to the side. This was her sister, and a little extra weight meant nothing. She embraced her sister lovingly, but could feel a slight reluctance on Lysa’s part to reciprocate the action before doing so. Catelyn then introduce Sansa to Lysa, who reciprocated by introducing her own son.

 

Robert Arryn was a small, pale boy with short cropped brown hair, and big blue eyes. He too was dressed in Arryn blue woolen pants and doublet, a white shirt collar peeking out from underneath, with brown leather boots and jerkin. He wore o’ertop of this a fur lined cape with the Arryn falcon and crescent moon on its back, and a hat with a falcon’s feather in it. Despite the fur lined cape, her six year old nephew was visibly chilled, and he stood clutching his mother’s leg as though he were a boy half his age. Sansa greeted her cousin with at once a kind of warmth which betrayed her prior knowledge of the boy, but seemed to endear Lysa to her.

 

After securing the luggage to the top of the carriage, they then made their journey to New Castle. Lysa the entire trip through the city commented on how trying the sea journey had been on her poor “Sweetrobin” as she called the boy. Catelyn however was rather shocked to see Sweetrobin nuzzling up to his mother like Rickon had to her before he could walk. Sansa did not seem to find the action at all out of place, and Catelyn began to wonder what else about her sister Sansa had forgotten to mention.

 

New Castle was built out of the same white-washed stone as the rest of White Harbor, sitting on a hill o’erlooking the city. From its towers flew the green and white Merman on a blue field--the sigil of House Manderly. Once entering the keep of the castle, she, Sansa, Lysa, and Robert were all taken to the Merman’s Court, which was the name of the Manderly great hall, for the evening meal. The hall was ornamented with paintings of seascapes and underwater creatures, taking Catelyn and Sansa’s breaths away at the intricacy of such a design. It was unlike any other simply styled Great Hall in the North, and suddenly reminded Catelyn of just where the Manderlys as a house had come from before the Starks had taken them in over thirteen hundred years prior--the Reach.

 

Joining them for the evening meal were the rest of the rotund Manderly family which included two oddly thin girls: one nearing twenty, and the second about Robb’s age, Catelyn estimated. The youngest obviously had dyed her hair green, but left her eyebrows their naturally blond color that she had inherited from her grandfather. Catelyn briefly considered for a moment the younger girl, who was rather bold in spirit it seemed. She might make a better match for her son than the crannog girl.

 

Before leaving for White Harbor, Eddard had confided two things to her, one to speak to Wyman about possibly beginning to raise a fleet for the defense of the North should Theon die (which would yet have to travel around Dorne and pass the Iron Isles before it could be of much use), and the second his suspicions of Robb’s attentions to the crannog girl. Catelyn held nothing against Meera Reed herself, but she knew that suggesting a betrothal to the girl would not look too favorably when there were other available young women of the North. Marriage was its own game, and Catelyn and Ned armed with knowledge of the future marriage proposals Robb had faced in the other future, now were both spurred to see if they could find some other girl before Robb’s future marriage was decided for him by others than themselves. Ned it seemed favored his friend’s daughter, which she did not resent him for one bit, but in her mind she thought that Robb just held a crush on the girl and that when given more of a selection he might choose differently. Meera was simply the first girl he had ever had the chance of seeing, and though she did not want to admit it to herself, she thought that he could do better than a girl who without her longer hair could still almost pass for a boy, not to mention fought with a pronged spear. Though Wylla, the youngest Manderly girl, was a bit eccentric to say the least, she at least wasn’t a crannog girl, and if she could show Robb that there were more options for him beyond Meera, his attentions towards the girl would end.

 

So that evening, after most everyone else had retired, and Catelyn had arranged with Lord Wyman the raising of a fleet as well as the arranging of booking passage on a ship for King’s Landing due to come into the port in three and a half weeks time for Ned and her nephew, Catelyn began to speak to Lord Wyman about possibly letting his youngest daughter travel with her to Winterfell to meet her son. It would be a crowded carriage to be sure, but an interesting one at least.


	12. Jon II

**JON**

 

When Jon visited Mikken, he asked for his opinion on what kind of sword might best suit a young lady.

 

“Trying your luck at impressing the crannog girl as well?” asked the old smith.

 

No, Jon had no interest in Meera--she was quickly becoming a good friend, but Jon could not imagine considering her in _that_ way. He would never come between Robb and whatever girl he set his cape around. Jon quickly corrected the smith, being honest with the man that he intended the sword for Arya instead. He still recalled the way that Arya had moved quite proficiently with a wooden practice sword against Meera’s pronged spear.

 

Mikken then told him that the girl had come to him asking for a sword and that he’d outright refused the girl, not knowing what Lord Stark thought of the plan. This gave Jon the opportunity he saw to give his little sister what she obviously desired. So he said that he had come from his father to give him permission to begin forging a weapon--but told the smith to say nothing to Arya herself, and instead give the weapon to him when it was completed. He would give it to her, Jon thought, and mayhaps she might start speaking to him like she once had. Despite now knowing what she had gone through--only barely surviving the war to come by living day to day--he felt that there still were things she hadn’t said. Why had she followed that man named Jaquen all the way to Braavos? Yes he had helped her escape Harrenhall, but there seemed to be something else she wasn’t saying…

 

Jon left the smithy brooding on these thoughts, and when he came to the practice yard he saw Meera alone, practicing spearing a straw dummy rather vigorously and overzealously--seemingly perturbed about something. Curious as to what had caused the girl to become upset, Jon stood at the gate of the practice yard and called to her when she seemed to be catching her breath from having pierced the dummy enough.

 

“You seem troubled, Meera”

 

Meera, who hadn’t heard Jon approach seemed startled by his observation before relaxing when she saw it was him.

 

Meera uncharacteristically replied with, “Troubled? I suppose you could say that.”

 

“Do you miss Greywater?” asked Jon

 

“Not at the moment, and before you ask, your family has shown their hospitality and kindness generously.”

 

Jon was confused and expressed as much, “Then I fail to understand what could be troubling you.”

 

Meera looked at him with slight annoyance, “Do you really want to understand, or are you just doing so so you can go tell Robb?”

 

Jon felt taken aback by her slightly hostile undertone.

 

“Has Robb done something?” asked Jon.

 

Meera sighed and said, “Yes… and no… and… he’s not the entire reason I’m... troubled, but he doesn’t make it any better.”

 

“What did he do?” asked Jon, feeling that despite her claim otherwise, that Robb might be the bigger issue.

 

Meera answered with a snort, “What hasn’t he done? I mean your brother will make a good lord one day, but that day is not today.”

 

Jon almost felt offended for Robb himself, “Can you tell me why you abuse my brother so?”

 

“When I arrived here, I had no intentions of doing anything other than helping my little brother, and yet your brother seems to do nothing but follow after me. From the time I break my fast to the moment I retire for the night, he is my shadow. At first I thought it rather nice, that he was simply being considerate, but more and more I wonder if it’s only proprietary that’s keeping him from bursting into my ged chambers to ask me how I slept. I’ve been so busy trying to be polite to your brother in return, I have not had time to spend time with my brother, and now he’s set upon going north with my father and your brother Bran, and I’m to stay here with your brother snapping at my heels like a lizard lion and I… I…” it was then that Meera stabbed the dummy with her knife.

 

“Bran’s going north?!” asked Jon. He immediately recalled how Bran had told them of Bloodraven and his training to be a greenseer to replace the still-living ancient corpse.

 

Meera seemed greatly affected by his question, but why he couldn’t understand as she said rather pointedly, “Yes, and they’re leaving me behind.”

 

Jon was then reminded that Meera was feeling hurt, and he had just overlooked it at the news of his brother’s imminent departure. Awkwardly, and without approaching the girl, Jon gave his apologies for her situation and offered to speak to Robb on her behalf to see if he might tone down his actions.

 

Her only response after thanking him rather perturbedly “Say what you like, but I’ve already told him.”

 

Jon then left Meera at the practice yard, but he couldn’t help but feel he’d done something wrong with the way Meera looked at him before he left. But he put his mind off of that for the moment as he had to find Bran and talk him out of leaving for Bloodraven’s cave.


	13. Robb II

**ROBB**

 

Meera hated him, of that he was certain, and Robb couldn’t have felt more dejected. She had told him to stop following her, and he being the future lord he wanted to be, had respected her wishes. So here he was by the Wolf’s Pen, the mother wolf still taking residence in the kennel, and he was playing with the only thing likely to give him any affection at the moment, the little gray pup that would be Grey Wind as he’d heard his siblings call his wolf. Sansa had said that he would be a fierce and loyal wolf to him, fighting along side him in many battles. Robb wondered at how the chubby little wolf pup that now filled most of his lap in size would transform into the fearsome beast that Sansa said was reported to have fought by his side. Rickon was nearby playing with an overly excite Shaggydog as he called the black beast that was nearly the size of Rickon himself. The mother wolf seemed to be increasingly glad that both he and Rickon were there to distract the pups--for it seemed that the pups had begun developing teeth and wanting to rough house with the poor mother wolf, who after a run through the wolfs wood or a hunt, never seemed to be in the mood for such activities. Grey Wind however seemed to sense the mood he was in and was doing his best to show his support oddly enough by headbutting him with affection. But it wouldn’t solve his feeling the way he did. Still he gave the pup a nice rub on his back and let him think he was helping, which seemed to satisfy the pup.

 

When he had had enough of playing with Grey Wind, Robb rose and made to leave the kennels, but instead of the past few times where the pup had returned to his mother, he instead followed Robb out of the kennels. It was as though the pup knew he was still needed. Well, if the pup wanted to come, let him come. The wolf mother did not object with a growl as the pup left the kennel, Robb heard no bark or growl, and now he wondered if that meant she had given care of the pup to him.

 

It was just then that he heard voices from the practice yard and looked over to see Jon and Meera talking, and she seemed upset. As Robb drew closer, he heard her say: “...they’re leaving me behind.” And Robb stopped before he was noticed by either his brother or Meera. What did that mean? Was her father and brother leaving her here when she didn’t want to be here? Did she not like him that much that the very thought of being left here bothered her? But then he thought back to what he remembered she’d said all those nights ago in the First Keep:

 

_“I go where my brother goes. He’ll always be my babe of a brother, no matter how old he becomes, and he needs me to protect him.”_

 

And suddenly it all clicked for Robb. She was worried about her brother, about how she wasn’t being allowed to help him like she wanted. And now she was being left behind while he was going to be leaving--were they going back to the Neck? Had he and his attentions caused everyone to think that she should stay here? No wonder she hated him. He’d hate himself if he ever got in his way of making sure Bran or Rickon were safe.

 

 _There’s still a chance, but I’ve got to be better now, and show her I understand even if it means she won’t be here_ , he thought. But that involved breaking his promise to stop following her, but he would only do so this once. So Robb approached Meera after Jon had left and gathered her attention--which had been absorbed with trying to pull out her dagger that had gotten stuck in the poll the straw dummy

 

“You should go after them,” Robb stated bluntly.

 

Meera did not turn around to say, “I thought you promised you’d stop following me.”  
  
“I’m not following you. But on my way to my chambers I did overhear you and Jon somewhat, and if it really bothers you that your father and brother are going without you, you should trail them in secret after they leave. Follow them until you know you’re far enough away from Winterfell so that they can’t possibly send you back when you reveal yourself to them.”

 

“Why are you telling me this?” asked Meera, who eyed him suspiciously.

 

Robb knew what to say before he even could think of what to say, and so he spoke confidently, “You want to help your brother, right? You told me in that haunted keep that your babe of a brother needs to be protected, so go. If it was Bran, Rickon, or even Jon that needed to be protected, I’d do the same.”

 

“You remember that?” asked Meera, genuinely looking surprised. Had he been that drunk she’d suspected he wouldn’t remember anything?

 

“Aye. So go after them.”

 

And with that Robb turned around and began to leave, feeling that if he stayed any longer he might regret saying what he’d said more than he did already.

 

“Robb!” called out Meera from the practice yard. Robb turned around to see that Meera had come to the edge of the practice yard’s split rail fence, where looking right at him she thanked him with a genuine smile. Robb felt his heart do a backflip but he didn’t allow it to show, instead nodding his head and continuing on his way, Grey Wind happily following him by his side.


	14. Jojen

**JOJEN**

 

Each day they spent in Winterfell was another day winter approached and would make the journey more difficult. Jojen wanted to leave now, and he sensed that Bran was eager to leave as well--but it seemed for different reasons that he would not speak of--but their fathers said they were to wait. Wait for what? Another sign to try and convince Lord Stark? No, they had to leave soon.

 

But he supposed they were actually waiting for Lady Catelyn to return so that Bran might say goodbye to his mother. That he could not begrudge, after all his own mother was left in charge of Greywater Watch, and he had taken his leave of her before journeying North. It only seemed fair.

 

So when Lady Catelyn returned not just with her sister the Lady Arryn and nephew the future Lord Aryn, but also another girl by the name of Wylla Manderly, Jojen knew that their departure could not be delayed for too much longer. So he watched and waited for Bran to make his goodbyes to his mother so that they might leave. He did not expect it the first few days after the return of Lady Catelyn as that would have been inconsiderate, but now it was close to coming to an end of the week, and there seemed to be no sign of Bran taking leave of anywhere. He instead saw that Bran was asked to include his slightly younger cousin along with Arya and Rickon at times, but mostly it fell to Bran to look after and include the sniffle-nosed doll carrying future Lord of the Vale. Arya held little interest in her cousin and Rickon had made the mistake of calling him a big baby to his face--which had prompted the little falcon to have one of his shaking fits that he supposedly was known for having. Jojen didn’t think though that that particular fit was due to anything but wounded pride. It irritated Jojen to no end, for Bran’s being stuck with the Lord Arryn meant that Jojen often had to endure the boy’s company as well and that they had less time to discuss his dreams.

 

A new one had recently begun to bother him. In it he dreamed of a ship being tossed upon the waves in a violent storm, Lord Stark trying to steer it to safety. In the dream he saw many people he did not know, but yet that he knew to be Northmen, hurrying about on the deck, trying to do what they could against the sea and storm. Was it an actual ship or did it like the wolf rescuing him from drowning have more symbolic overtones? Jojen knew not, and he couldn’t talk about it while the little Lord Arryn was pestering him. Somehow Bran had found a way of abandoning his cousin with him.

 

“My lady mother says you crannogmen live not in castles!”

 

Jojen tried his best to be polite, but it truly was getting hard at this point, “We live in crannogs.”

 

“What’s a crannog?”

 

Jojen then respectfully--but only barely--answered his question, “It’s a castle that floats on the water.” That wasn’t the complete truth, but he figured it would be enough for the boy to understand.

 

At once the Lord Arryn seemed to be trying to fight with himself over how to respond to such an answer. Clearly he’d been told by his lady mother that crannogs weren’t any kind of ideal to say the least, but he seemed to find the idea of a floating castle hard to dismiss as being completely bad. This confusion in the boy allowed for Jojen to take his leave of Bran’s cousin. Eventually the little Lord Arryn got over his confusion and decided to walk in the direction of the kennels, where no doubt Bran’s younger brother Rickon was playing with the direwolf pups.

 

As he looked for Bran he passed the practice yard where the green-haired Wylla Manderly sat on the split rail fence watching as Bran’s older brothers sparred with one another. Seeing no sign of Bran, he continued his search until his feet led him to the Godswood. Yes, this is where he’d be. And he was right, for he found Bran praying to the Weirwood tree. Jojen knew he could not disturb him now, so he joined him in prayer by the Weirwood tree, offering up his own hopes that they would soon leave. And when a small breeze picked up he thought he heard the Old Gods whisper in his ear through the shaking leaves of the tree the word: “Soon.”


	15. Lysa II

**LYSA**

 

Winterfell was a drab gray castle in a drab gray landscape, full of drab gray people. Gray was the color of the Stark banners, the clothes they wore and the eyes of her goodbrother’s frosty expression. The only sparkle of color in this hinterland seemed to come from hair color as the rude Manderly girl’s wild green locks seemed to prove.  
  
After arriving in the castle Lysa had set to work preparing for Pyter’s plan. She decided to address her sister subtlety by laying the groundwork for suspicion to take root. She spoke of how it was talked of the old man being too old to be Hand, and that the Queen in particular seemed overly concerned in this matter. That ought to be enough for the moment, Lysa concluded, but Cat simply smiled at her and said that it might be a good thing for Lord Arryn to retire for the rest of his days to the Eyrie so that he might be able to raise little Robert and spend his dotage with her. The utter thought of that ever coming to pass revolted Lysa, and truly revealed just how naive her sister still was. The Old man was likely planning to foster her Sweetrobin away to some far away lord, and the idea of familial bliss, which her sister seemed to have rather too much of, was a scarcity.  
  
If I can do this for Pyter, then maybe I can have some semblance of bliss--even if I have to wrench yours from your hand myself. So she decided to simply observe Winterfell to see if she could find the chinks in its armor for Pyter to exploit. She continued mentioning how the Lannisters wanted Jon out of the position of the Hand to no avail. Nothing seemed to disturb her sister about it.   
  
She did eventually find a few chinks. Not soon after they had first arrived Sweetrobin had come crying to her in her chambers, asking to return home as his youngest cousin, the wild Rickon, had called him a big baby for clinging to her. She hated her youngest nephew from that moment forward, and vowed she would one day make him pay for hurting her darling Sweetrobin. A few days later she realized that there was a way to hurt the boy. The idea came to her once when she was walking by the kennels. Her son and the wild toddler were inside talking rather excitedly. Sweetrobin seemingly having forgotten the offense his younger cousin had said to him. And the moment she opened the door to the kennel she froze at the sight she saw from a distance. There were wolves in Winterfell. She had seen what she had thought were dogs following the eldest sons around the castle, but the gigantic horse-sized monstrosity that lay in the kennels terrified her the moment she saw it. The wild toddler climbed all over it as though it were just another dog, and had invited her Sweetrobin to join him, which he did rather reluctantly, until she went in and grabbed him off the direwolf. Sweetrobin protested but she knew better. The young Stark cared for the she-wolf, and it him. It would be a shame if anything happened to separate them, and she would make sure of it. She confronted her sister and goodbrother about the mangy beast, pulling her darling Sweetrobin along as she did:  
  
"That monster in the kennels must go!" insisted Lysa  
  
She thought she was dismissed rather coolly: "The wolf does as she pleases. We've already set her loose and she returns and keeps her pups here. We do not keep her here. She is here by her own choice," said the Lord of Winterfell as though he knew the wolf's mind. What bothered Lysa the most was how the wolf was almost referred to by her goodbrother in such a belonging way, that it was her natural place to be in Winterfell.  
  
"Then lock the gates to the monster, she nearly mauled my son. Tell them, sweetling!" said Lysa as she thrust her son into the spotlight.  
  
"No it didn't! Cousin Rickon was showing me the pups and then you came in and pulled me away before I got a chance to see them!" protested Sweetrobin, clearly still upset at her having stopped him from doing what he wanted.   
  
She had never said no to her son before, but clearly she could make him see the danger he had been in. "Only because the beast would have hurt you, my darling if you'd stayed there a minute longer."  
  
"No she wouldn't have. Rickon said she wouldn't!" She was sent into shock at that comment, and let the matter drop for the moment. She couldn't afford to continue to antagonize this publicly as long as Sweetrobin opposed her. Later she could slowly convince him of the truth of the situation when he came to her, and she would make sure that the wolf and his wild cousin would pay some other way.  
  
Soon, her goodbrother was set to leave for King’s Landing with his shame that looked just like him. He would soon be a Stark as much as her nephews and nieces, and the effrontery boiled her blood. It would bring shame upon the House of Tully. Lysa said as much to Cat, expecting to hear that this was a subject with which she might be able to pry her sister away from her husband’s clutches. But she was even more affronted by her sister’s seeming acceptance of the boy, excusing the trip to the fact that he had apparently risked his life for her younger sons and that the Seven had sent her a sign that they had willed it. Lysa thought of how foolish her sister sounded speaking of religion. The Seven had never done anything for her, she’d asked the Stranger multiple times to take the Old man, and yet he lived. This wasn’t a chink in the Stark armor.  
  
The second chink was discovered when she noticed just how busy a man Maester Luwin was as he seemed to only have time to look over her darling Sweetrobin at the mid-day meals. When she asked why the man wasn’t available more frequently, Cat gave her a nervous look before confiding, “My husband’s ward is direly ill, I’m afraid.”  
  
Lysa knew enough of the Greyjoy hostage--or ward if her sister preferred to delude herself as to the true nature of the boy’s being there--that he was likely the only reason the Iron Islands did not rebel. If the Starks would not build further enmity with the Lannisters, perhaps they would with the Greyjoys if their hostage Kraken was found dead. And then she and Sweetrobin would return to the Vale immediately, for it would not do to be in the dull drab North when it was at war. She wrote to Pyter of her plans, he would be so proud of her, but now she had to find a way to do the deed, and then she recalled the Tears of Lys that Pyter had given her that she had failed to use on the old man due to her fear. Now she would not hesitate to use them, for they would give her everything she wanted.


	16. Jon III

**JON**

 

The ship was due for King’s Landing this evening, and all Jon could do was sit and think. Unlike his father, who apparently found sea voyages to be trying and hardly stirred himself to go above deck, Jon felt at ease on the ship. There was something to the rocking of the waves that soothed him. His father spent his time below deck with his albino direwolf, Ghost, who had refused to be left behind at Winterfell, following after their horses as they had departed the castle. So stubborn was the wolf, that he indulged it on its insistence, and had been surprised when his father had agreed to the arrangement--let alone the seeming indifference the mother wolf had allowed in simply letting her pup depart from her. His father found looking after Ghost to help keep his mind off of the disturbance of the ship. There was something rather odd though, that Jon noticed about the way his father and his wolf interacted--he couldn’t explain it but he at the same time couldn’t help but acknowledge its existence either.  
  
Two weeks had nearly passed since White Harbor and almost three since he left Winterfell. And now he was on the verge of entering King’s Landing, the gigantic capital city of all of Westeros. He could hardly believe all that had happened to send him here, his four youngest siblings had come back from another time which had led him to proving himself to Lad Stark so that she would grudgingly agree to make him a Stark. He felt himself on a new and different path, a path that he knew not where it led. He had said as much when Wylla Manderly had asked him about his thoughts on being legitimized. The girl was as bold as her choice of hair color. To be honest he did not know what he thought of the girl, but she certainly had made a lasting impression on him. He thought back to when she had first arrived at Winterfell, obviously Lady Stark had brought her to draw Robb’s attention from Meera, but she had proven herself unsuccessful. Not that Robb bothered the crannog girl like he had previously like a lovesick pup, but Jon knew that his brother’s feelings would not be assuaged so easily, and Lady Wylla had told him as much.  
  
“Your lord brother is caught by the tail for her,” was what she had said. At first Jon had suspected the Manderly girl had started to talk to him because she thought he might have an idea of how to woo Robb over. But in fact she had surprised him by speaking to him about himself.  
  
“You’re so quiet you know, except when you’re around your brother. It is almost like he is Summer and you are Winter, and when you two meet, either Spring or Autumn comes,” Lady Wylla had observed rather bluntly to him one time when they had been walking in the courtyard. Jon did not know how to answer the seemingly poetic girl, so he merely nodded. He supposed that was true, though he never would have thought of putting it like that.  
  
In the week or so he had spent at Winterfell before leaving himself with his father for White Harbor he found that Lady Wylla had increasingly asked to speak with him. They wouldn’t be long conversations, for she always seemed to get distracted at the easiest temptations--but they were cordial and even downright pleasant, if Jon were to be honest with himself. Most of these conversations typically involved her doing most of the talking, Jon thought, and him only saying what he felt he had to say, so he did not mind. Wylla did not seem to mind, and she was really the first person outside of his family on whom it did not seem to matter what his name was not yet Stark. But he couldn’t even begin to think that her interest in him had anything really to do with him. She was being kind, or perhaps scheming herself as much as Lady Stark was. Perhaps she thought that by befriending the bastard that was to soon be a true brother before he became proclaimed as such, she would more quickly rise in Robb’s esteem.  
  
Jon was disturbed by his thoughts when he heard cries that stated they had arrived at King’s Landing. The impressive walled city loom over the headwaters of Blackwater Baby, with the tallest structure being the Red Keep, or the Royal palace which stood on a hill close to the shores of the bay, but separated from it by the wall. When they got closer, Jon felt himself nauseous as the grand and beautiful sight was matched with an odor of horrible proportions. White Harbor had had a slightly slight salty odor of what his father had called “seaweed” in its air, but King’s Landing stank of the garbage, feces, sweat, and horrible odors of too many people living together. This odor was especially worse at the docks, and Jon found himself vomiting not long after coming ashore.  
  
They were met there by some men in light armor with golden cloaks, who noticed his father’s sizable guard of Northron men he had insisted join them on the journey South. Jon did not blame his father, according to Sansa and Arya this was the city where he would-had died. And it was in that moment that he marveled at his father, at choosing to come here for him despite what he knew of the city’s dangers. He hadn’t thought his father would ever do something for him like this, but he was, and Jon felt himself feel proud to be the son of Lord Stark--base born or no.  
  
Together with the Gold Cloaks and the Northron guards, Jon and his father, with Ghost trotting close along side them both, were escorted through the gates and then the putrid city streets until they eventually came at long last to the pale red stone of the Red Keep. The stench seemed to be held back at the keep’s gates, as though protected by magic, and considering who had built this keep Jon wondered if the Targaryeons hadn’t employed some sorcerer before they had all died out to do such a feat. But he was letting his fancy fly away with him, as the walk through the large expanse of gardens with many blooming flowers which surrounded the keep quickly explained that problem.  
  
After navigating the many large halls of the Red Keep making many turns that had Jon confused almost to where they were headed, the only thing that seemed certain was they were going up as they climbed many stairs. They eventually came upon a small room with a desk where an old man sat. Half the Northron guard stationed themselves outside the door, and half joined them inside, and the man looked confused as the men entered along with his father and himself for a moment, before seeming to let it go and embrace his father rather warmly. It was then that Jon was introduced to the man for whom he had been named, Lord Jon Arryn. He was a seemingly stern man, with a hard chin, long nose, and pronounced white sideburns. He was dressed in fine clothes of Arryn blue, like his son and wife usually did. Jon thought he could see a fleeting resemblance to the small boy that had arrived as his... goodcousin? Was there even a term for a cousin one got through marriage of one’s father to another woman who was naught related to you through blood? Jon doubted it, but he made up his mind to ask Sansa or Robb about it when he saw them again.  
  
“So this silent young man is my namesake?”  
  
“I believe so, my lord,” answered Jon as he had been taught to respect high lords.  
  
Jon Arryn chuckled for a moment before adding, “You are the very spitting image of your father when he was your age. What are you, boy, fifteen, now?”  
  
Jon felt rather proud at the fact of being confused for being older than he was, even if it was only a moon until he would be that age, so he answered with his current age “Fourteen, my lord, though I will be fifteen in a moon’s turn.”  
  
Lord Arryn nodded and continued to look at Jon, and he increasingly felt as though he were on display to be inspected--as though all bastards who wished to be legitimized had to measure up to some distinctions  
  
“He’s taller than you were,” noted Lord Arryn, and Jon thought he saw his father appear rather nervous for a moment, before Jon finally said “but I can see he’s just as solemn.”  
  
The conversation then turned to how Lord Arryn’s wife and son were adjusting to life at Winterfell, and Jon was allowed to be shown to his chambers for the duration of the trip. Jon suspected that his father and Lord Arryn that they wished to discuss without him present, and so he obliged by leaving with Ghost and a small fraction of guards from outside the room to follow a servant to what was called “small chambers” that were quite a bit larger than his own back in Winterfell. In his chambers for the remainder of the afternoon until it was time for the evening meal, he played with Ghost, finding a ball that the wolf seemed to like to fetch after he threw it. The wolf was happy, though it hardly made a noise to indicate as such. Like he, the wolf was the silent member of his pack. Instead he could tell from how the wolf’s firery red eyes were set aglow when the ball left his hand. He had named the direwolf in that other life supposedly for this trait he was told, by Arya, but in this life he felt the name carried an extra weight for the sight of the strange ghostly woman of the First Keep who still haunted his dreams.   
  
Thinking of Arya made Jon reflect on the sword when he had presented it to her before his departure for King’s Landing. She had exclaimed that he was the best brother in any time, and hugged him for the sword, which she promptly told him was to be called Needle, and she told him that he in the other time had given it to her before leaving to join the Night’s Watch. Jon wondered at how despite some things changing--his departure instead being for King’s Landing and not the Night’s Watch--other things did not, like the gift of the sword. He wondered though if he would have thought of giving her the sword had he not seen her fight against Meera. He had told his father nothing of the sword, at Arya’s request, and would keep her secret. She had then asked him if he had been told anything of his mother.  
  
Jon had told her the truth,“Father told me that she is dead. She was taken soon after my birth and that her last words were to have our father promise to look after me.”  
  
Arya looked very strangely at Jon at that moment, and instead had changed the subject.  
  
Jon was then interrupted from his reverie by one of the Northern guards who told him it was time for the evening meal.  
  
The next day Jon was told to dress in his finest clothes that had been brought for him. They were in the colors of Stark gray and white, and were undeniably uncomfortable to wear, but he figured if he was to become a Stark in name, he would have to dress the part. He, Ghost, and his father were then brought before the Iron Throne, where sat the royal family and many nobles standing at the periphery of the room. Jon felt all eyes upon him, and he looked up to the Iron Throne to see a fat man dressed in Baratheon black and gold with long brown hair sitting under a crown on the throne made of thousands of swords. Beside him in her own chair sat his golden haired and green eyed queen in a flattering Lannister red dress, sitting upon her lap was a young boy about Bran’s age, who looked exactly like her and nothing like his father--but then Jon noted that Robb, Sansa, Bran, and Rickon all were the same, having the Tully features of Lady Stark over the Stark one he and Arya shared. When they came at a certain distance to the throne his father stopped and kneeled to the royal couple on one knee, and Jon did as much. For some reason the Queen could not help but look at him as though he had a second or third head, but Jon tried not to let it bother him as he followed his father in bowing before their majesties.  
  
“Stand up, Ned!” boomed the King in all joviality, before seeming to collect himself and proceeding with an air of formality that he had seemed to have forgotten a moment before. Jon remained kneeling for he had not been asked to rise. Ghost he could sense had decided to sit down next to him and seemed to sit with as much pomp as a wolf could muster, sensing the dignity of the ceremony.  
  
“For what reason do you come before me, N--Lord Stark?”  
  
“I have come to officially ask you to legitimize my natural born son Jon, and make him a Stark.”  
  
“Do not you have children by your wife?” asked a silky voice, and Jon looked up to see that the Queen had spoken.  
  
“Aye, I do your grace.”  
  
“Then why need you legitimize your _bastard_?” asked the woman, saying the word with a particular distaste that sent a chill down Jon’s spine.  
  
“Because my lady wife asked it of me, your grace,” began his father, and then he launched into how Jon had risked his life riding out after a bandit that had threatened the life of his younger sons--it was a version of the truth, Jon admitted, though he did not like to hear his father lie, though to his credit he did not dwell long on the near-truths and instead spent more time on the things that were true. He spoke of how Jon had risked life and limb, how Lady Stark, bereaved over Bran’s condition during the ordeal--left out was the fact that Bran was a skinchanger who had truly saved his own life in the form of the direwolf--had prayed to the Seven offering that if Bran would live she would consent to seeing Jon legitimized as he had earned from his defense of his younger siblings.  
  
“Such a story speaks of tremendous valor and devotion, my lord,” was the Queen’s honeyed comment, and Jon wondered if she truly meant the words she said.  
  
It was then that from the crowd a man clothed in robes of a Septon came forward, begging his pardon to the King and proclaimed that such a pact must be honored, for the Seven did not look kindly on broken oaths. The King smiled at the Septon and said all would be honored. Jon was then asked to come and kneel at the foot of the dais the Iron throne stood upon. Jon, hesitatingly stood and did as much as he was asked, his nerves all twisted inside. The fat king stood, and drawing his sword he tapped Jon’s shoulders with the flat of it.  
  
“In the name of the Seven and the Old Gods that have no names, and the power each invest in me as King of Westeros, I hereby decree that Jon, son of Lord Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, is hereby to be known as a Stark of Winterfell and to be considered a true born son of that family. Last in line of succession to your father’s title, but clearly first in his affections. Rise Jon Stark, and may your actions heretofore lead other natural born sons to aspire to your example.”  
  
Jon rose and he felt as though a weight he had not known been there was lifted off his shoulders. He was a Stark, in name as well as blood.


	17. Robert Baratheon I

**ROBERT**

 

He had never asked to be King, but it had become his almost as a consolation prize for the woman, Lyanna, he loved being taken from him. He had fought side by side his love’s brother--Ned, who was a brother to himself in his own right from boyhoods spent in one another’s company in the Vale. They had argued after the sack of King’s Landing, their brotherhood strained, but not broken--at least he hoped it wasn’t. But then after reporting that Lyanna had died in Dorne, Ned hadn’t even stayed the night in King’s Landing before setting out to be Warden of the North in his name--clutching a bastard he had fathered somewhere amongst the salt and smoke of battlefields and war. Now that bastard was to be made a Stark, he was happy to do it, if it meant that Ned might do something other than his duty to him. However Jon had other suspicions. Ned had known of the poison too conveniently--and reported of it just in time. How was it that he in the North had come to know of the plans of an assassin in the South. But Ned would never… he was his brother!

 

Jon had argued, “I agree that I think not Ned would have done so himself, but we must consider it a possibility--no matter how unlikely. Offer to give him what he wants, your Grace, that will bring him South, and once he is South we can know one way or the other the truth of the matter.”

 

And so the afternoon he arrived Jon and managed to get him alone and ask him to tell him the truth of the matter. It was after his bastard had left that Robert had joined them.

 

He began after all the pleasantries of welcomings had been commenced, “About the wine, Ned. I would know how you knew.”

 

Everything depended upon his answer there and then. And Ned seemed to choose his words carefully when he spoke, “You both know that I would not lie to you about this, but I fear I cannot tell you the truth and have you believe me while mockingbirds do listen.”

 

Jon responded saying, “Enough with the double speech Ned, it suits you poorly and you’re fairly bad at it. If you’ve got something concrete against Petyr Baelish, out with it.”

 

“I have nothing definitive. If I did have anything more than rumors, I would be taking this to you in front of the entire court.”

 

Something didn’t settle right with Robert, “You would have us believe you acted only on rumors and suspicion alone, and simply got lucky? Ned, I know you. You act not on rumors unless you’re fairly certain of them being facts. And you certainly never bloody well come armed with more than a full personal guard. There’s something you’re not telling us!”

 

Ned’s reply was the first time that he had let the icy wall that hid his emotions fall: “If acting on rumors and suspicion would save either of you your lives, then yes I’d listen to a thousand rumors and act upon them all. Better to be overly cautious when you’re in positions such as yours. I would not lose either of you!”

 

Robert was taken aback by the amount of emotion Ned had put into what he said. He had truly believed their lives had been in danger. and it was that, more than anything else which dismissed all the doubts he had been forming, and he chastised himself for ever doubting Ned’s loyalty.

 

“Stay, Ned, so you can help us root out this threat, then.” Robert requested.

 

Ned sighed before saying, “I would, if I could, but there are dangers stirring far to the North.”

 

“Dangers?” asked Jon.

 

Ned said, “Lord Commander Mormont has been writing to me of how he has been sending rangers out to discover what the Wildlings are planning--rumors say they are gathering all their forces to march on the Wall around a King-Beyond-The-Wall--and the Lord Commander says with as many rangers as he’s losing, he fears that the Night’s Watch might not have enough men to hold back any attack of the Wildlings indefinitely. And my northernmost bannermen report of finding small bands of Wildlings having climbed the wall and moving South.”

 

The idea sounded nearly preposterous--how could those Wildlings climb that damn monstrosity of architecture? “Wildlings climbing the Wall?!”

 

Ned only said“It can be done. It’s been done before in the days when Starks were Kings.”

 

“Would you chase every rumor in the Kingdom?” asked Robert wryly.

 

His response was as stalwart as the Wall he spoke of. “Something is killing the rangers of the Night’s Watch. And whatever it is, it doesn’t bode well for any of us South of the Wall sound the Night’s Watch be decimated.” Ned then sighed and said, “And there’s a further matter that puts the North in danger, though I might say the rest of the Seven Kingdoms as well. My ward, Theon Greyjoy, is near death. He came down with some sickness and when Maester Luwin tried to cool the fever by letting some blood, the cut became infected. He’s now alive, but only barely.”

 

Robert was caught off guard by this news, but it did not bode well. Granted they’d likely put down another rebellion fairly easily, but a war would provide any assassin many more opportunities to strike at them. So he said, “By the Seven, Ned! Why didn’t you tell us this sooner?!”

 

Ned became very quiet as he replied, “I didn’t want to communicate this by raven--less it should find itself in the wrong hands.”

 

Jon asked, “How long do you think the boy will live?”

 

“Truly, he could die any day. I have already told my bannermen on the Westernmost shores to be ready at a moment’s notice for sieges. I’ve reinforced Moat Cailin, in case they should sail up the Fever River and cut us off from the rest of the South. I’ve also charged Lord Manderly to begin raising a fleet to send to the Western coast as soon as he is able.”

 

Robert did not like these tidings, but at least the would have prior warning. He’d send word to Stannis, the Lannisters, and the Redwynes to be on their guard. But that would be done later, after this meeting.

 

Robert exclaimed with some small amount of fury escaping him, “Damnit Ned, you’ve holed yourself away up North for so long that all you can bring when you come South is news as dower as that Frozen land!” He sighed and then trying to lighten the mood a bit, “What of your boy? Why do you want him legitimized?”

 

Ned’s answer of his wife’s request and religious experience made Robert want to laugh out loud, but he didn’t for Ned’s sake. He then pressed the one question that had been hounding him about the honorable Ned Stark for the past fourteen years.

 

“That is all fine, Ned, but now I would have you answer my one request I have. Who is your bastard’s mother? Or would you rather me wait until the morrow and ask this in front of all the court?” That was sure to get him the answer.

 

Ned seemed troubled at this request--no doubt remembering how he’d compromised his honor, Robert figured. But at long last, Ned croaked out, “Wylla. I knew not her family name.”

 

It wasn’t much, but then she’d probably been a camp follower, but for Ned’s sake he said, “She must have been one hell of a woman.”

 

Ned looked Robert directly in his eyes, simply saying, “She was.” And by the seven Robert believed him.

 

When Robert finally saw Ned’s boy he thought for a moment he was back in the Eyrie, waiting for Ned to practice swords with. He even told the youthful spectre to rise as he would’ve back in the Eyrie, but he was brought back to reality when the older version of his friend rose, and he was reminded that he was not in the Eyrie but instead in King’s Landing. The rest of the ceremony went on without a hitch--except for Cersei dragging out the thing to be longer than it had to be with her own challenges and questions--which thankfully was put to an end when one of the Septons supported the claim of the miracle. And before long the bloody ceremony would end and he could find a good bottle--no he couldn’t risk another bottle of wine. Better to go with ale.

 

After further business of the court was dealt with he retired to smaller compartments--inviting Jon, Ned, and his son to celebrate over a flagon of ale had been discovered and tasted. Ned’s boy seemed hesitant to take the offered drink, but eventually did--with Ned giving him a rather stern look--that reminded Robert of how Lord Jon would look at them when they had snuck barrels of ale back at the Vale--that clearly said the boy shouldn’t have more than that one glass. Robert chuckled and made comment to Lord Jon about the interaction before proposing a toast himself to the boy’s future.

 

After taking a tremendous swig and wiping the foam from his beard he then turned to the younger Jon and asked, “So what have you thought of your future lad?”

 

The boy spoke respectably, “To speak truly your grace, I had considered joining the Night’s Watch before all of this. Now I am not as sure that is what I desire.”

 

“It is not too late to squire and become a knight,” offered the elder Jon to the younger.

 

Robert added, “Aye, and if you prove your mettle, I would make you one of my Kingsguard.”

 

“Truly I am honored to even be considered, but my younger brother Bran was always the one who dreamed of becoming a member of your kingsguard. And I would not take that dream away from him, your grace,” the younger Jon replied.

 

Ned gave Jon a look at that moment, Robert noticed. It was one he couldn’t decipher, though he got the distinct impression the boy had said something amiss.

 

Robert merely noted, “You could both serve me well enough.”

 

The younger Jon spoke respectably but with some hesitation as though he were daring to say something he had long hoped for, but never thought possible, “And I would with distinction, your grace. But now that I have a name... I believe I would rather like to have the opportunity to pass it on to children of mine own.”

 

Robert heartily replied, “Damned if you aren’t Ned’s son! All right I’ll wait for your younger brothers to grow up then. Mayhaps one of them would prove up to the challenge..”

 

It was then that Ned finally added his own “I have given some thought Jon, to your future, but I would not have you feel it forced upon you. Though it certainly is not as honorable as either the Night’s Watch or the Kingsguard would be, but with war likely to come to the North’s western shores, it would prove to be an important one. I would have you become a bannerman sworn to House Stark, I would then help you build a small holdfast and port on our western shore as a place for the new Western Fleet to call home. Eventually after you’ve learned all there is to know about ships and navies, I’d give you command of that fleet, and mayhaps one day your port could become a White Harbor of the west.”

 

“Where would you put this port?” asked the elder Jon, seemingly intrigued by Ned’s plan, though the younger Jon seemed in shock at the offer.

 

“That I would leave to Jon to decide, if he would choose to accept, as it would be his Lordship. Though I would say that both Sea Dragon Point and the Stony Shore are vacant, within my power to grant, and either one would prove to be a good home for a harbor.”

 

The younger Jon then seemed to ponder the offer before saying, “Your grace, may I have the use of a map?”

 

And a map of the North was called for, for the younger Jon to examine. Eventually after examining the map thoroughly and receiving little advice--the men wishing to see if the boy’s judgment were sound, Robert thought it his first test of lordship--he determined that the best place for the port would be at the mouth of the last river that fed into Blazewater Bay, or the Blazewater River as it was known. It was the right choice as far as Robert was concerned--not too far North to make trade unlikely, centrally located on the coast to provide protection for the settlements within the bay relatively easy, but not too far within the bay that sending ships to relieve Deepwood Motte or say, Bear Island, could be just as easily done, and the fertile lands surrounding the mouth of the river would help supply it with food. The only damnable thing about it was its distance from Winterfell and the Kingsroad, as far as Robert could see, but other than that it was a fine choice, and it showed the lad’s good sense.

 

It was just then that Grand Maester Pycelle interrupted the meeting to announce that a letter for Lord Stark from the North had just arrived with dire news. Theon Greyjoy was dead.


	18. Theon I

**THEON**  
  
Today was one of his better days, though Theon did not bloody well care--for it just meant in a day or so he’d be back to the worst of suffering. What did it matter if the infection were in remission today? When he had first had these good days Theon would force himself over to the window to get some fresh air and to look down to the courtyard and watch as life in Winterfell went on without him, him seemingly forgotten about--but today Theon had no inclination for such a melancholy past time. Not when it was raining outside like it had for the past three or four days--truth be told days held little meaning for Theon anymore--he could have been holed up in this dreary room for a year now and he’d have not known the difference.  
  
In the beginning he’d not been so neglected as he felt now--Robb had even come to visit him early on, though he seemed to be uncomfortable with doing so, which Theon could never understand. And Robb’s visits became shorter and shorter, yet he still managed to find at least some time to visit with Theon. However when the crannogmen and his son and daughter had begun to appear in the yard, Robb stopped coming to visit Theon, and instead Theon was treated to the amusement of watching Robb Stark fumble over how to approach a girl.  
  
But again, Theon felt especially apathetic today, and so he spent the majority of it in his bed, sleeping with the fain hope that some decent rest with the hopes that such would put off the bad day to come. He was awoken around his usual supper time--he could tell because the darkened sky had grown even darker--and claps of thunder and flashes of lightning seen in the distance out his window. He turned to see that it had been Lady Stark--except it didn’t look like her, since when had she become so plump?--sitting by his side and offering to help him feed himself. She had a bowl of soup on the his bedside table and was holding out a spoonful of the broth-like soup for him to eat. However Theon didn’t feel hungry and so gave his “apologies” by saying he wasn’t hungry and rolling over so his back was to her. It was then that Maester Luwin arrived with Sansa to look after him. Theon pretended to have fallen asleep so as to not bother trying to communicate with Sansa. It was during this that not-Lady Stark left the room, taking the soup with her--saying that she’d return after he had been tended to, but she never did, and Theon drifted off into a hazy state between dream and reality--only to be brought back much later by a loud crack of thunder outside his window that illuminated his room and made him aware of the woman in his room. She was completely pale and wearing a white dress, and was so beautiful that Theon thought for a moment it might be the beginning of his visions that indicated his bad days were coming, and that this was his mother as he had last seen her. The woman seemed to float about the room silently before leaving through the door--and Theon, feeling safe with the knowledge this was just a waking dream--and that he was still in his bed imagining all of this he decided to follow her through this dream. She floated down the steps of the keep and went out into the storm, and still Theon continued to follow her. It was odd but Theon didn’t care he just wanted to get one last look at his mother’s face, which had been obscured from his glance until now--her head bent as though in a silent prayer. Soon Theon found himself feeling the rain against his skin, again Theon convinced himself this was all just a dream, that his sodden clothes were dry, and still in his bed, able to wake up if he so desired. His mother then descended into the Stark crypts, and he followed. The torches at the newer end of the crypts still lit as though someone had been here for prayer not too long ago. His mother thought continued into the darker and older parts of the crypts and then suddenly disappeared, leaving him in complete darkness. It was then that he heard them--the wolves.   
  
In the near darkness he saw the vague outlines of the wolf statues next to their long dead Kings of Winter begin to move and grunt, howl, and growl, and his lazy daydream became a nightmare. And Theon tried to wake himself up, knowing that this was just a waking dream--but he would not awaken--and so he ran--an energy he did not know he had bursting forth. He was stumbling through the dark and the dirt, trying his best to outrun the mangey stone creatures, and soon darkness became light, earth became forest and the wolves yet still seemed to chase him. The transformation of environs made little sense to his mind, but then again most of these hallucinations shifted and tossed him about like this. He felt the rain upon his skin, but he cared not to be soaked again, he had to run and escape the wolves, mayhaps then he might awaken.   
  
The storm however was so heavy that Theon never saw the flash flood of water he ran into and lost consciousness in. The last thing Theon thought before he blacked out was why couldn’t he wake up from this horrible nightmare and be someone else, any life would be better than this wretched one.


	19. Robert Arryn I

**ROBERT ARRYN**  
  
When mother had first brought him to Winterfell he had hated it. He hated his cousins whom were supposed to treat him as future Lord of the Vale, but instead called him a baby (he was no baby, was he?) and would often abandon him. Cousin Sansa seemed to care somewhat, but she was a girl--and girl cousins didn’t count the same as boy cousins--not to Robert at least. Girl cousins had to care because girls cared.  
  
It wasn’t until he discovered Cousin Rickon’s wolf that he found something of interest: a wolf pup. Of all the wolf pups that Rickon’s wolf had given birth to, only one remained unclaimed. And Robert wanted that pup. After upsetting the pup by tossing away his doll and trying to replace it with the pup, Rickon said that if he really wanted the pup that he’d have to get it to trust him by being nice to it. So early on Robert decided that playing with Cousin Rickon so he could play with the unclaimed pup was worth it. It was worth being pressured into doing things he didn’t really want to do like running, wrestling, fighting with sticks, climbing, getting dirty, and ruining his nice clothes that mother had bought for him--though something inside him was rather gleeful to find an excuse to be rid of that stupid velvet doublet that was too hot to wear down South and too cold to wear up North. And besides Rickon had said it looked silly on him and after some thought Robert agreed with his younger cousin.  
  
Eventually the pup began to tolerate him, but it never was like the way Robert saw Rickon and Shaggydog play--and the pup would always grow bored with him and return to its mother. And Robert wondered if it was all because he was still a baby, and so he resolved not to be one anymore. He even started to dislike being called “Sweetrobin”, because the name sounded far too much like that of baby’s. And he would be no babe any more. He still had shaking fits from time to time, but they had gotten better since coming to Winterfell and weren’t as frequent--and Rickon got the bright idea that whenever he started to have one knew to hold him down so he wouldn’t hurt himself or anyone else when he felt a fit coming on.  
  
Mother didn’t like Rickon, but Robert didn’t care, as he slowly began to find crawling into all manner of tight and dirty places with his younger cousin to be fun. It was odd but in some way Rickon oddly seemed much older than his three years hinted at. _“Is that how much of a baby I am, that babies seem older than I do?”_  
  
Then there was his other cousin closer to his age, Bran, who never had time to play with him, but instead went into that stupid Godswood with the weird tree all the time with that crannog boy named Jojen. But Robert didn’t mind that too much as Bran was boring when he did play with him. Rickon said that Bran used to be different, and that he used to climb all over the walls of Winterfell.  
  
“He still does sometimes… but not like he used to,” said Rickon  
  
Robert seem intrigued by the idea of climbing and so suggested that they do so--to which his younger cousin quite readily agreed. They found an wall with easy to hold hand holds near the Broken Tower, which Robert scurried up quickly enough while Rickon found climbing up something other than a tree to be a bit more difficult. But to Robert he felt as he grabbed the stone that his hands clung to the wall like talons of an eagle. And when he finally reached the top of the ramparts of the inner wall they’d climbed, Robert felt the wind begin to blow and for the first time in his life he felt like he an Eagle. Eagles built their nests on the highest and most dangerous of places for lesser animals, and they alone could cling to such places. And suddenly the fact that he didn’t bond that well with a wolf pup didn’t matter--because this was better. Mayhaps he could find an Eagle or Falcon egg when he returned to the Vale and train the bird. His wolfish cousin labored but eventually found his way up the wall, but only with Robert shouting down suggestions of where his cousin could find the best hand holds. The view from the top of the wall was spectacular, Winterfell was so ideally position on the crest of a hill that he could see for miles in any direction.  
  
“Sweetrobin! What are you doing up there? Come down right this instant!” exclaimed his mother’s voice. Robert for the second time in his life decided to shout back at his mother, _“No!”_ as she was crossing the courtyard for the steps that would lead her to the top of the ramparts nearest him and Rickon. Rickon merely looked on slightly shocked at his response. “ _That was good”_ , thought Robert, _“I’m not being a baby!”_ Robert looked down to see his Aunt Catelyn, Uncle Edmure and another man--both of whom had recently arrived at Winterfell with another man whom Robert couldn’t remember the name of--calling after his mother not to overreact, that he was safe on the ramparts.  
  
When his mother had reached the top of the stairs, Robert knew what would happen next--she would grab him and pull him down from the ramparts--and he didn’t want to come down. Seeing the broken tower nearby, Robert rushed over to where it met the ramparts and began to ascend it relatively quickly. This only had the effect of hurrying his mother’s steps to him, which Robert did not want.  
  
“Sweetrobin, my little love, come down from there! You’ll hurt yourself!” ordered his mother as sweetly as she could muster.  
  
“Why can’t I climb and play like cousin Rickon does?” asked Robert demandingly.  
  
“Your cousin is a wild oaf! Don’t dare compare yourself to him, m--my darling Sweetrobin!”  
  
“Stop calling me that! I’m no robin! I’m an eagle!” he proudly proclaimed for the entire courtyard to hear.  
  
His mother adopted an overly sweet guise in response as she tried stepping up on a rampart to better be able to reach him, which Robert swiftly avoided by backing up so he was just out of her reach as she said rather frustratingly sweet, “Whatever you say, sweetling! Now come back down to your mother...”  
  
“He looks fine where he is,” observed Rickon rather bluntly.  
  
And Robert felt a wave of dread o’erflow him as he saw his mother suddenly remembered that Rickon was there as well.  
  
“You wicked little brat! You’ve done this to him!” and she then lunged at his cousin who was too tuckered out from the climb to properly duck. And she grabbed him by the front of his tunic and pushed him against a rampart.  
  
“Take your hands off my son!” called out his Aunt Catelyn in what seemed to be a mix of fury and fear. She, Uncle Edmure, and the man were rushing for the stairs, but Robert saw as his mother now shoved his cousin to the space between the ramparts--and immediately he knew he had to act.   
  
His mother was shouting directly at Rickon, “It’s because of you, that he ruins all his nice clothes. It’s because of you he’s become so willful! It’s because of you--”  
  
His mother was going to make his cousin fly--and wolves don’t fly! He had to stop her! In a haste Robert was back on the ramparts and he charged at the two of them and with a strength he never knew he had he pushed his mother off his cousin.  
  
For one instant Robert thought that all it had accomplished was in separating his cousin from his mother, but apparently the shove had disrupted her stance in her wooden-soled boots and upset her balance enough that she faltered on the uneven stones of the ramparts. She fell further backwards as her body twisted and went right over the edge and down to the courtyard.  
  
A sickening silence o’ercame the moment before Aunt Catelyn scooped up his cousin and began to fuss over his safety, while Robert and his Uncle Edmure instead became focused on looking over the edge, and for a fleeting moment before his Uncle tried to shield him from the sight, Robert saw his mother a tangle of limbs with some blood where her head had hit.  
  
“Mother?” called out Robert tentatively--and he received no answer.


	20. Catelyn II

**CATELYN**  
  
When the rains had stopped, Catelyn had thought that some sense of the normal would return to Winterfell. Shortly after Ned and Jon Snow had left the castle for Winterfell, Bran and the three Reeds had slipped out of the castle in the middle of the night. Although Catelyn suspected where they were heading, she would not so easily give her son over to some tree demon, even if he could teach her son how to grow his own Weirwood tree with his green powers alone. She would have Bran safe within the walls of Winterfell, and told Ser Rodrik, Emrik, and Skae as much when the old knight had suggested the Reeds had kidnapped Bran and taken him hostage to the Neck. She instead did her best to convince the man to turn North, and to say that Bran would have gone willingly. Robb wanted to ride along as well, but Catelyn reminded him of his duty to his house--that he had to be the Stark in Winterfell while his father was away. So Ser Rodrik and his two eldest squires, Emrik and Skae, rode off . But Catelyn couldn’t help but notice that instead of going North, they had turned South after a suitable distance of travelling West when they thought Lady Catelyn likely to have stopped observing their departure.  
  
Further disruption came in the form of her brother’s unannounced arrival, made in receipt of her letter telling him of Ned’s intentions to legitimize Jon Snow. He had arrived Hendry Bracken and Patrek Mallister--whom had been visiting Riverrun no doubt to cavort with her brother about the nearby inns, brothels, and taverns--to be allowed to defend her impugned honor. _“And where were you fourteen years ago? Just boys of ten or less,”_ thought Catelyn with some bitterness, but she couldn’t continue to indulge in such thoughts and manage to think better of her nephew.  
  
“He goes too far, Cat!” yelled Edmure. Poor sweet Edmure, he’d always been a bit muddle headed.  
  
“My Lady, a man would only seek to legitimize his bastard in such a situation if he meant only one thing: to set his lady wife and her children aside,” added Patrek.  
  
“Enough Edmure! Did you even read my letter beyond the first paragraph?”  
  
Edmure bristled at the accusation, but Cat knew she had hit the mark, “I thought your husband forced you to write that... obvious lie.”  
  
After Catelyn had managed to convince through her own words the story she had written to him in the letter, praising Jon Snow’s devotion to Bran and Rickon--the words hurting her somewhat, though not as much as they used to, to say--and persuaded them that her honor was very well intact, Edmure and his two cohorts then set about testing guest rights by emptying Winterfell’s wine and ale cellar slightly more than Catelyn found appropriate. But then she figured it was in their extravagant minds their own way of getting back at her husband. She found she preferred this to the foolhardy notion of single combat that Edmure had requested upon his first arrival.  
  
But that would not be the only piece of news to reach them with worry. The morning after the final storm, Theon Greyjoy was reported by Maester Luwin to have gone missing. Immediately the entire castle was searched, and Cat became furious when she found her brother and his two companions were still in the Great Hall, having not moved from the night before, each passed out drunk on her fine oak tables--and slobbering on them she added. Enraged that they should be so slothful when everyone else was at work--they could at least assist in the search for Theon--she grabbed the buckets of water her maids had been using to mop and clean the hall with, and threw all the water on the snoring trio of overgrown bearded boys.   
  
“Seven Hells!” exclaimed Edmure with a start.  
  
“And that’s exactly where you’ll be going if you three don’t rise and make yourselves useful!” scolded Cat.  
  
She immediately informed them of the situation and managed to convince Edmure that if Theon remained missing that more than her honor would be called into question. That alone caused him and his compatriots to rise and actually assist in the search for Theon.  
  
When Catelyn came upon Arya simply standing around and not assisting in the search, Catelyn demanded to know why. Her daughter   
  
“Why such the fuss? We’re searching for a corpse. If the storm didn’t kill him, he’s likely dead from the infection. Valar morghulis.”  
  
Catelyn for some reason recognized the phrase, but from where she could not recall, and so she asked, “What did you say?”  
  
“All men must die. And it would be a mercy to let him do so. The life you and Maester Luwin were forcing him to have was no life at all.”  
  
“Arya, do you know what his death will cost our family? Once the Greyjoys hear about this, they’ll be out for blood, _our_ blood, Arya. And they will not stop until they have taken what they want! The North will bleed for his death.”  
  
Arya seemed only slightly affected by these words.  
  
“If you think it so fruitless to search for him alive, then at least continue to search for his body,” said Catelyn with exasperation  
  
Soon the search discovered footprints inside the crypts leading to a secret entrance that Catelyn had not been aware existed--but now was glad to know--that emptied into the Wolfswood. The search there continued with her brother, his compatriots, Robb, and Jory all taking the search further into the wood. With reluctance Catelyn returned to the castle. When the men returned after the evening meal had been served, the news they brought with them was grim. Theon’s trail had been followed as far as a point in the Wolfswood that had flooded during the storm--it went no further and did not continue on the otherside.  
  
“If he didn’t drown, then he’s likely been washed so far down into the Barowlands that by the time we found him, he’d be dead from whatever sickness he’s been suffering from.”  
  
Robb seemed the most troubled by this news, refusing the offer Catelyn had had the Cook keep warm for their return. He continued to be troubled for the next few days, no doubt blaming himself, as a small memorial service was held for the Greyjoy in the tiny Sept--Catelyn felt claustrophobic as the building had not been designed to hold that many people. Benfred Tallhart, a mutual friend of Robb’s and Theon’s from childhood, was in attendance, and some sort of argument broke out between her son and the bannerman’s blonde son, which only Edmure could break up. Later as she attempted to nurse her son’s black eye, Catelyn asked what had caused them to act like such a pair of fools and dishonor their friend’s memorial.  
  
“He asked me how I could let him be so sick and go out in the storm like that. He said I wasn’t a good friend to Theon. And you want to know the worst of it, mother? He was right.” Her embittered boy said, resisting any treatment to his wounds, apparently thinking that that would atone for his crimes.  
  
And then a few days after this the worst of events occurred. Lysa overreacted once again. Edmure and Hendry Bracken had been helping her talk to Lysa about her unnatural attachment to her son and her less than positive reactions to his recent developments. Thanks to Rickon Lysa’s boy was finally becoming more than a doll for her to play with, for which Catelyn was happy to see in her nephew. But the events quickly escalated beyond anyone’s recognition. Suddenly Lysa was at the tunic of her son, edging him over a rampart!  
  
Summoning all the fury she could muster, Catelyn snarled for Lysa to let her son go and immediately they pursued after her up the steps to the ramparts. Events happened so fast after that, that it wasn’t until Catelyn saw her sister laying dead in a twisted pile of limbs and blood that she recognized that her son had not only been saved by her nephew, but that he had killed her sister in the process.  
  
In all of this commotion at Winterfell, Catelyn had forgotten to take note of the fact that she had missed her moon’s blood for the second moon in a row.


	21. Nylla I

**NYLLA**  
  
The earliest memory Nylla of the salt cliffs had was from when she was four of her mother telling her that her father had died in the rebellion. She had no memory before this that she could recall and feel confident it was genuinely her memory and not a memory that her mother had implanted in her own head through constant storytelling of her early years. It was from her mother that she had learned that they had not always lived in a one room stone hut near the salt cliffs that lined the Saltspear, but instead had once owned some land--not a lot of land, but some nonetheless--and sworn fealty to the Flints of Flint’s Finger, who in turn swore fealty to House Stark of the North--whatever that meant. But then her father had died in the rebellion serving that said House Stark, and his younger brother, her uncle, had come and thrown out Nylla and her mother and claimed the lands for himself. The Flints ignored her mother’s pleas, saying if she really wanted her lands back she would have to take them for herself. Nylla had often asked why her uncle would be so cruel to turn them out of house, and always her mother would brush her black hair aside and run her thumb against Nylla’s forehead--Nylla feeling nothing from the lingering amount of greyscale that troubled her in her infancy--and say that some people in the world are never content with what they have and always desire more.   
  
“And the Old Gods see fit to give them more, my sweetling, more of death,” her mother had always said. And Nylla supposed it was true, for many a night she dreamed of having all her mother told her she deserved, praying each night before she fell asleep that the Old Gods would give her her birthright--but the Old Gods were cruel, as her mother warned her, and at the tender age of fourteen she had lost her mother to a sudden chill which turned into an all out fever from which she died. Remember the cliffs--had been her mother's final words on earth. And Nylla did remember the cliffs, the salt cliffs provided Nylla the only way to trade open to her. Each day she climbed the cliffs to chip away a decent sized block of salt to take to the village market and earn the few meager coins that would see her through on food until the next day. She supplements this with whatever fish she can catch--though not many lived in the salty waters of the Saltspear.  
  
It was one particularly fine morning a day or two after the storms had ravaged the waters of the Saltspear, that Nylla’s life was about to change. She found a boy, in tattered clothing--long ruined and soggy. To Nylla the boy was the handsomest she’d e’er seen. He had long black hair, and a long straight nose and strong jaw. He had obviously seen better days, for he looked nearly starved, pale, and rather gaunt, but when she held his hand in hers she felt it to be warm. She drug him along the beach until they came to her hut, where she set about beginning to tend to the boy--he was barely alive, but she believed she could heal him. Her mother in her earliest memories had collected as many rare cures in her own vendetta against the grey curse that curved from her forehead down over to her right cheek like a scythe. Nothing had really worked, but a collection of rare cure-alls had been the result of her endeavors. This led Nylla to try one of the stronger cures made from Hebrion’s moss that while available in Westeros, was much more common to Essos. Of all her attempts this proved to be the most effective and slowly the boy’s fever subsided, and color began to return to his skin, giving him a slightly dark tone to his skin that she couldn’t help but admire. During this time she placed him upon her straw, wrapped him in her blankets, and held tightly to him as he slept, trying to imagine what it might be like if he were a husband, like Mother spoke of most men being for women. She called him Clyffe and spoke to him as he slept, imagining how he might respond. In her mind he was bold, but sweet, cunning, but kind, and had a quick mind to match such traits.  
  
When he woke she figured it would only be a matter of time until he left. They all were repelled by her grey scythe upon her face, and most everyone whom she came in contact with avoided meeting with her a second time if they could because of those scales. However the young man who awoke had no memory of who he had been--he remembered running and nearly drowning, but before that, nothing of his former life it seemed, and Nylla had to hope that it remained that way, for as long as he “forgot” his other life before she had rescued him, the longer she could keep him.  
  
He accepted the name Clyffe, believing that to lack a name would bring him misfortune of some kind, though he was unsure of what that was. Some days after he had just awoke, Nylla hated that he had to ruin the Clyffe she’d imagined he’d be. Never in her wildest dreams had she imagined his occasional tendencies towards boastfulness and bragging, but then he would turn around and with the sweetest of black eyes be extremely kind to her. Nylla knew not what to make of the two very different Clyffes that he tended to switch between, but she encouraged the sweet young man just beginning to develop for herself.  
  
One night while she was re-wrapping the few minor wounds (cuts and scrapes he called them) that he’d sustained on his bare chest, her hand paused for a moment longer than intended in one spot. He then looked at her and then he took a kiss from her--it was rough and befitted the braggart Clyffe. She repelled his continued advance and he challenged her on it:  
  
He looked her in the eye and said, “You want it, admit it. I can see your desire in your eyes.”  
  
“I do, but not like that,” was her only reply on the subject.  
  
It was then that he tried again, being kinder this time, and more hesitant, as though fearful of her rejection. And from that moment forward both Clyffe and Nylla were quite satisfied with one another for many times to come over the next few days. For a time she imagined that he didn't flinch when he ran his hand over her grey scythe, and that he too wanted her as much she did him, and his continued kindness to her made it all the easier. Sadly though, like all good things it came to an end sooner rather than later.


	22. Meera I

**MEERA**

 

She had been tracking them North, planning to only join up with them once they found a way past the Wall--there’d be no sending her home after that. Jojen had told her that Bran knew where to go to get to the three eyed raven’s cave, and that it was north of the Wall, in an attempt to try and calm her down when he and father had broken the news to her in an attempt to try and convince her that they’d be safe. All they had done was strengthen her resolve that she _had_ to go. She knew why her brother placed his trust in the small wolf, but that still did not stop her from thinking it rather foolish. True the boy was a powerful warg--she’d observed him attempting to teach Jojen how to control a raven one afternoon in the Godswood--but that didn’t change the fact that he still was but half her age. Her father could look after, but who would be there to help Jojen? Her father knew her brother not as well as he thought. Though Jojen and he may share that same quiet thoughtful outer shell, underneath they couldn’t be more different. Jojen was more like mother, underneath--constantly thinking and planning and worrying. Their father meanwhile put faith in the gods that had seen him through to this point and would continue to do so, almost blindly trusting that they would make everything right. But if there was one thing she had learned growing up in the dangerous marshes of the Neck, it was that you had to be on guard at all times if you wished to live. How her father had survived his infancy in the bog, Meera knew not.

 

They had begun the journey North, Meera observed, by traveling through the Wolfswood just parallel to the Kingsroad, and Meera kept well enough of a distance away to keep an eye on them, but remain out of sight. Once Winterfell was a good three days’ journey behind them they then continued their journey along the Kingsroad. And for several weeks they traveled in this manner, not a soul disturbing them on the journey North. They’d travel during the mornings, spend the late afternoons hunting for game and the evenings eating, sharing stories of her father’s time during Robert’s Rebellion--that she overheard from her own meager little camps him tell for the umpteenth time, but she watched as Robb’s younger brother and his wolf pup listened with overeager ears, lapping up all the stories as if they’d never heard the tales told.

 

One night as they drew closer to the colder winds of the far north, she pondered what this meant: Had Lord Stark spoke not a word of Robert’s Rebellion to his children? That seemed rather odd to Meera, and she wondered if that might explain Robb’s behavior a bit more. If he had a father who didn’t tell him everything like she knew her father told her, then mightn’t he be a tad more naive? And upon reaching that realization Meera retired for the night thankful for the father he had been given by the gods.

 

When they passed Queenscrown, the group began to journey further north by not taking the rest of the Kingsroad to Castle Black, instead veering more and more away from the road. Meera found she had to stay at an even larger distance from them in order to not be seen as the lands upon the gift had been cleared for farmland centuries ago--though most of them were now fallow. In fact it felt rather eerie traveling through the ruins of old farms where skeletal buildings and creaky old windmills groaned with the wind.

 

One night she was staying in a ruin of a barn--the only building between her and the small hut her father, brother, the wolf pup called Summer, and Bran Stark had occupied a few miles away--but still in sight across the empty moorland. That night a frozen rain had fallen, making the necessity of a roof keep her from traveling to a place closer, as she didn’t want to wake up to find herself half-frozen under a sheet of ice. It also brought trouble that she had not anticipated.

 

Meera had just been falling asleep when a sound was heard in the bottom floor of the barn. She’d found comfort enough in the half rotten, but still softer than the ground, hay loft, and truly Meera didn’t mind the moldy smell of the hay. The banging at first Meera took for the fierce wind which plagued the Gift blowing open the barn door--this had already been the case earlier in the evening, and she’d already gone down to close it.

 

However just as she was about to climb down the rickety old ladder she heard a voice of a man in the darkness proclaim, “This place smells worse than a snowbear’s ass in summer.”

 

“What do you care how it smells like. You turning kneeler on us, Rickwyle?” teased another man’s voice.

 

 _“Kneelers? What were those?”_ thought Meera

 

“Gods be good, you’re the one who complains if he hasn’t had a bath in a week!” shouted the first man.

 

“I did not risk dying climbing that frozen wall to hear you two argue. If I wanted that I would’ve let the Others take me long ago,” interrupted a woman’s voice.

 

Meera felt her eyes widen, _“Others?!”_

 

“Well, whoe’er lived ‘ere sure got fancy--built themselves a whole second hut atop this one,” said a third man’s voice.

 

“Gods help me, they’ll find me!” panicked Meera, but she was too frozen with fear to move.

 

“Have not they barns north o’the wall?” asked a fourth man’s voice.

 

“What’s a barn?” asked the third man.

 

“Place where yer animals sleep.” said a fifth man.

 

“That’s what the ground’s for!” protested the voice called Rickwyle.

 

The third man added, “If this place’s for the beasts, I’d like t’see where ye kneelers hole up.”

 

Meera finally had summoned the courage to back away slowly from the edge of the entrance to the loft. A board groaned beneath her weight.

 

“Quiet!” yelled the woman who then ordered a man named Margos to climb the ladder. Meera knew she had no opportunity to remain hidden--the hay far too sodden and heavy to bury herself beneath, so she reached for her pronged spear, but as she grasped it, the old loft floorboards finally gave way, sending Meera crashing to the ground below. Once recovering from the impact--which she did relatively quickly, she tried thrashing her pronged spear aimlessly through the dark air. It was promptly knocked out of her hands. Before her she saw five shadowy figures

 

The voice called Margos exclaimed, “By the gods, I didn’t know there were Southron spearwives.”

 

“She’s not a spearwife, she’s a crannog girl,” spat the fourth man.

 

Meera felt a thin gaunt hand caress her face and pull it towards where it had come from while the fifth man said, “What you doin’ this far North o’the Neck deary?” In a flash she’d pulled her dagger and stabbed it in the direction the man’s voice had come from. She heard a gasp, a burbling sound emanating from the man’s direction and heard him as he tried to say, “S… she’s g--got a... dagger!”

 

Meera knew she was out numbered, but she put up a fight nonetheless, stabbing her dagger in the directions of the breathing and footsteps she heard, sometimes stabbing something--though not as mortally wounding as her first victim apparently for the five remaining figures encircled her and a pole eventually knocked against her wrist and she dropped the dagger in pain, she fell to her knees and grabbed her wrist with her free hand. She heard someone quickly scramble to grab her dagger and before her hand had recovered she felt her own dagger’s point at her neck. She awaited to feel it pulled across and end her life.

 

“Stop!” shouted the woman’s voice.

 

“She killed Wallen!” hissed the fourth man’s voice from aside her.

 

“We could ransom her,” suggested the voice called Rickwyle.

 

“Crannog girls are worth next to nothing!” proclaimed the voice in her ear.

 

“There won’t be any killing this night. Besides, I like her spirit,” ordered the woman, who took the dagger from the fourth man’s hand.

 

“Rise kneeler, I am no king,” said the woman smugly, and Meera did as she was told. And Meera was crestfallen, knowing she had failed to help her brother, and she wondered who would be there to protect Jojen when Wildlings took them as they had her.


	23. Eddard III

**EDDARD**

 

After receiving word from Catelyn that Theon had likely died fleeing Winterfell, drowning in a flash flood, Eddard knew that his place was in the North. The Greyjoys must have been told soon after if--even with his dimmest of hopes that they believed the truth--any semblance of honor were to be held. Eddard knew it likely though how this news would be received in Pyke. He’d been in the hall when Robert had boasted of Balon’s two elder sons’ deaths. And for a fleeting moment he’d felt horribly guilty for fighting for Robert as he watched as Balon’s wife crumpled to the floor in unadulterated sorrow and anguish, pulling at her hair and crying for her two eldest sons’ who would never respond. This time Balon would not take the news lying down--he would strike back, and he would strike at the North. And so he apologized to Robert that his and Jon’s visit would have to be cut so short--but truly he was glad to be leaving so soon. King’s Landing had not changed one bit from the last time he’d seen it, and he wanted to be gone from the city so the ghostly visions of the rebellion would stop plaguing his waking thoughts as well as his nightmares. Not to mention before Littlefinger found a way to recover his plots against him and his house. Ned growled at the thought of the man and was taken aback at the action when he saw Jon stare at him oddly in response. They were at the docks seeing that their men and luggage were being safely transported onto the sloop _Winter’s Wind_ , which was bound for White Harbor in a few hours’ time.

 

Just then a messenger dressed in the crowned stag sigil tunic arrived panting for breath. After being given some water, the exhausted young man--not much older than Jon, Eddard figured--said that the King and Hand were on their way to speak with him, and they were not to leave the capital before doing so. Thanking the man for the message, Jon and Eddard walked to the far end of the dock to speak privately.

 

“What think you father of this news?” asked Jon

 

Eddard knew his face turned even more grim than he usually kept it as he said, “I know not, but I can hardly think it’s good news, Jon.”

 

It was then that trumpets were heard sounding from the entrance to the, announcing the royal presence.

 

And quite soon it was seen that along with more than a few guards, Robert and Jon Arryn quickly hastened to join them at the end of the dock, saying upon arrival, “My Lord Stark, Lord Jon, it seems we’ve caught you just in time.”

 

Eddard didn’t like how his friend referred to him by his official title nor the emphasis he placed on the word caught. Gods, had Littlefinger sprung his trap? It was then that Eddard noticed that Lord Arryn seemed troubled with a look that he had never seen on his foster father before now. It was one which spoke of grief, defeat, and utter shock.

 

“It appears you have, your grace.” If Robert wanted to play the old children’s game of Lord and King when outside of his court, Ned could play it well enough himself.

 

“Tell me, Lord Stark, is Winterfell these days safe for none but Starks?”

 

Eddard was shocked at the outright accusation, “Excuse me your grace?”

 

Robert moved to explain further, “More dower news from Winterfell has arrived. Your goodsister is dead. Jon just informed me of two letters he’s received confirming this information. Not just from your wife, but also her brother Lord Edmure Tully.”

 

Lysa was dead? Eddard couldn’t say he was sorry that his foster father’s attempted murderer was no longer a threat, but another part of him now understood why he looked so distraught.

 

“R--Robert…” groaned the old Lord Jon, and suddenly Robert’s expression softened as he looked to the man who had raised him alongside of Eddard. Jon then continued with some seeming difficulty at speaking, “Edmure mentioned... something in the letter... I had not time to mention to you… before you came to seek Ned.”

 

The king sighed before dismissively saying, “Not now, Jon.”

 

“Yes now!” insisted loudly with most of what seemed to be his remaining strength. He then gathered what remained and in private conference between the four of them read aloud from Edmure’s letter of how Jon’s wife had upon the ramparts of Winterfell attempted to take the life of young Rickon-- _my son! Gods how could I have let that kinslayer near my pack?_ \--and in self-defense how young Lord Robert had defended the life of his cousin, but accidentally had disrupted his mother’s balance and caused her to fall from the ramparts to her death.

 

“Lord Edmure wrote this to you?” asked Robert gravely.

 

The Old Falcon was not quick to respond, “Indeed your grace, and such knowledge… greatly troubles me.”

 

“Why would the Lady Arryn attempt to kill her own nephew?” asked the young Lord Jon.

 

The elder Jon seemed to regain some vitality as he said, “Apparently spending time in the company of wolves has inspired a change in my son--a change I admit to having desired, but I had not thought it would lead to this! Lord Edmure writes that he, Lady Catelyn, and Lord Patrek Mallister had been trying to convince her to accept the change, but she became so o’erwhelmed at the sight of Robert and his cousin climbing the walls of Winterfell that she lost all sense of reason. And her death is my fault… had I not sent him away to be fostered, Lysa would still be alive, and my son would not have… been the cause of her demise...”

 

Eddard felt the full burden of this knowledge weigh upon him. In truth had he not offered to have his nephew fostered at Winterfell, then Lysa would not have died. And no matter if her death did lead to the safety of Jon, clearly the man had come to care in some amount for his lady wife to be this greatly affected over the news of her death. Both Robert and Eddard were at a loss at seeing the one man who through rebellions, deaths, loss of family, and everything else they had endured had always been as solid and stalwart as a mountain. Their mountain to cling to and find shelter in troubled times. But now before them that mountain did crack and crumble. And for the briefest of moments Eddard imagined they were yet but small children, whose innocence was being shattered upon learning that their fathers and mothers were not perfect.

 

It was his son who finally broke the shocked silence, “Then you should come to Winterfell, Lord Arryn.”

 

Robert gave his son a look which stated he still held doubts as to the safety of Winterfell, but Jon seemed to o’erlook this as he continued speaking solely to the man for whom he’d been named after, “You must need fetch her bones, and surely you should want to comfort your son, should you not? I should imagine he’s terribly aggrieved and distraught.”

 

The old Lord Jon seemed to grow older by the minute as he said in an almost near panic, “I can’t go to Winterfell, not with war on the wind, and his grace to be gathering a force to meet at Seaguard.”

 

At this, Robert seemed to summon something from deep inside of him as he proclaimed, “But you can, my Lord Arryn, for you are not well enough to continue as my Hand. The realm needs a strong Hand to rule in my absence while we prepare for the inevitability of another rebellion. While you have proven yourself more than capable in the past, I fear that the time for your retirement has long since arrived. Collect your wife’s remains and son and return home to the Vale to raise him to be a true lord of it, and may the rest of your days be long and full of happiness as he grows up to be worthy of the honorable name of Arryn.” And Eddard felt he’d ne’er heard nor would again hear his friend sound more kingly than he had in that moment.

 

“But who would you have as your Hand, your grace?” asked the elder Lord Jon.

 

Robert seemed to become more at ease, chuckling before he said, “I suppose Cersei would have me choose her father, but personally I think not I should replace my foster father with yet another lion. Heaven knows they circle me enough already. Besides he is near of age of you Jon. I would not have you retire due to age, only to be replaced with a near peer.”

 

Ned knew with how things now stood that he would not be asked to be Hand by Robert, which slightly offended him at the same time it relieved him. However he knew he had to suggest someone to keep Robert safe from the Lions as much as Littlefinger. Ned then tentatively made a suggestion, “Your grace should consider your brother.”

 

Robert nearly growled in response, “Stannis is Master of Ships and will be needed in that position in this upcoming crisis far more than playing at being king here in the city.” Robert then sighed and added, with less fury, “Though he is a good suggestion, Ned.”

 

Once again a silence o’erfell them, until yet again, his adopted son broke it with, “I would suggest the Blackfish, your grace.”

 

Robert gave Jon a long hard look before bursting into laughter while japingly asking, “Ned, are you sure his mother isn’t a Tully?”

 

“The boy speaks wisely, your grace. You’d not find a man more honorable nor worthy of the position. He served me well as the Keeper of the Gates of the Moon, which before the days of the dragons was the position equivalent to Hand in the Kingdom of Mountain and Vale,” added the elder Jon, who seemed to recover himself slightly to say as much.

 

Robert finally conceded, “Fine, I’ll request the arrival of the Blackfish as soon as you’re on this boat, Jon. Ned, you’ll see that he arrives and leaves Winterfell without further _accidents_ , won’t you? I won’t have it said of House Stark that their castle is a death trap for high lords.”

 

Ned felt the sting of offense and replied with only a slight growl underneath his voice, “You need not ask it of me, your grace. As I’ve said before, I would do anything to protect both you and Jon.”

 

Robert continued, “Indeed you have, and I believe you.” He then sighed and continued as if he didn’t want to say what he was to say, but needs must say it anyway, “As for young Lord Jon Stark here, I believe he’ll have to remain in King’s Landing for a time while my brother takes him under his tutelage.”

 

 _Jon, here **alone** in King’s Landing?!_ Suddenly the bloody sight of Aegon and Rhaenys’ bodies flashed before Eddard’s eyes along with the word _“Dragonspawn”_ echoing in his ears, causing him to miss what Robert had said next, leading him to say, “Pardon me, your grace?”

 

Robert then repeated himself, “I said Ned, is not your son to one day be Lord of the Stony Shore and commander of the Great Northern Western Fleet? He needs to learn his way about a ship before he can be of any use to you, not to mention how to command a sailing fleet. Whom better to teach him than the Master of Ships and the man who crushed the bloody Ironborn in the last rebellion?”

 

Eddard immediately saw through the niceties to what Robert was truly after: a hostage to be extra sure of Jon’s life and departure from Winterfell. _The affrontery of the man! How dare he even suggest separating his pup from his pack! Had he no trust anymore or belief in him anymore?_ But then Ned saw the hopeful look in his adoptive son’s eyes--failing to see the broader implications for the opportunity to have a chance to prove himself away from the pack, which he obviously was starved for. Eddard then noted the worried look Robert gave the defeated Old Falcon, and he could no longer blame him as his anger largely dissipating upon the sight of Jon Arryn. The wings of the Old Falcon had been clipped, and in such a world where that was true, the old man needed every amount of protection he could afford--and besides Jon would have had to have gone his own way at White Harbor with a man whom Lord Manderly had been charged to find from Braavos, for much the same reasons. This way Eddard knew that the quality of his son’s seafaring education would be quite high and do the North a great honor--and better he is with Stannis than a treacherous Lannister or Redwyne admiral. So with much bitter distaste for the situation, Eddard consented to the separation and education of Jon.

 

_“Forgive me Lya.”_


	24. Sansa II

**SANSA**

 

When father had announced that he and Jon were going to King’s Landing, Sansa had panicked, well not at first, and not outwardly either. Instead the panic ate away at her from the inside, slowly gnawing away at her regained sense of safety little by little. Awful memories of Ser Illyn wielding Ice, and Joffrey showing her father’s severed head plagued her moments both when she slept and was awoke. Lady, who had been weaned from her mother about this time, had taken to following Sansa around the castle, and when she awoke from these nightmares, she’d whimper and curl up closer to her, offering the comfort of her presence. This sweet action proved to be troublesome as well, for memories of Lady’s death came flowing back, causing Sansa to cry, and Lady on these occasions to affectionately lap up the tears as they fell from her cheeks.

 

Sansa had thought that when little Sweetrobin finally came to Winterfell that she might find a way to distract her minds from these nightmares, but Sweetrobin had instead taken to Rickon’s companionship rather than her kind attentions. Which Sansa thought was probably for the better for him over all--and felt right in the decision as she saw Sweetrobin become more and more of a typical little boy. Then as she had to interact with him and her aunt, the memories of all that happened in the Vale joined the constant barrages to her conscience. She heard Lysa’s confession, felt Petyr’s kiss upon her lips, saw the snow castle representation of Winterfell destroyed again and again.

 

Because of these nightmares and memories flooding her at every turn, she found herself unable to sleep or function that well. Sansa had given up bothering Septon Chayle for continued chats on morality (she was the only one who still attended them anymore) as well as for asking him to help her in her task copying the older books in Winterfell’s library. She’dd also given up the half-hearted attempt she had at trying to learn how to warg with Lady.

 

And it was in this state that she finally recalled that it had been the King who had suggested she marry Joffrey originally, supported tremendously by her mother. Her mother wouldn’t push the issue this time, but would the King? He might make it a condition of Jon’s legitimization! Thus it became this issue around which Sansa could gather herself: how to avoid . Unfortunately she had recalled this important fact just after her father had left for King’s Landing, which meant she had to do something in the meantime that would make her unavailable for Joffrey, should the subject arise. This meant that she would have to get married--or at the very least betrothed, before word from her father could reach them of the King’s intentions. It was a slim hope to have, but it was the only one she had to cling to at this point. She didn’t like the idea in the least. Quite frankly after having been the pawn in several successive marriage attempts and betrothals, she had been looking forward to a respite from the neck-breaking marriage market. But now with the possibility of being betrothed once again to Joffrey a threat, this meant things had to change, and for the first time she had a voice in seeing that change happen. Of course she had only a little under three weeks to become betrothed before father arrived at King’s Landing and could send word from the king. So Sansa had set to work, seeing if any of her father’s local bannermen’s sons would suffice, they were after all the most well known to her.

 

She approached her mother with her plan--as she’d need one of her parents’ approval in order to make it a legitimate betrothal. Her mother was happy for finding an eligible young man, but found the local selection to be less than agreeable. There were four local bannermen’s sons who would do well for Sansa--three of which she’d grown up playing with on occasion as a child, so she already knew them. Those three being Benfred Tallhart, his cousin Brandon Tallhart, and Cley Cerwyn. The fourth was Daryn Hornwood, but her mother dismissed the match as Alys Karstark was known to have been betrothed to Daryn after she’d failed to woo Robb at the tender age of six--instead having preferred Jon’s sullen company. Mother of course also brought up the subject of Alys’s three older brothers and her three cousins, in an attempt to at least give Lord Rickard some consolation in failing to have his daughter wed to Robb, but they were too far away to come in time for Sansa’s liking. And frankly Sansa did not like the idea of possibly one day marrying someone she had not the opportunity to know of their character prior to the marriage. There was just so much opportunity for that to go wrong, as her experience with Joffrey had informed her. _Keep your mind on the task_. _Mother had been damned lucky to have gotten father_. Nor did she like the idea of being a consolation prize to any man, and told her mother as much.

 

Benfred was the heir to Torrhen’s Square. He was older than her by six years, a man grown, and well-built for his age, and handsome with his shaggy sandy blonde hair that always seemed a mess. However that age difference had always put some distance between her and the loud (and often drunk) Benfred, who had looked upon her as a silly little girl, not worthy of his attention because she knew nothing of battle axes and swords. He had been especially chummy with Theon Greyjoy, as Sansa recalled, so she eliminated him for that reason alone.

 

His cousin Brandon was a year older than her. True he was not heir, but a respectable holdfast was certainly in his future. She recalled a sweet boy who’d been as different as night and day from his older cousin. He was small and lean, with short dirty blonde hair that he always kept neatly groomed. He had been the one to play the most with her, and listen to all of her most intimate secrets, of all the Tallharts--and she him. They had played at being Lady and Knight as children, with him rescuing her from some imagined beast (usually in the guise of Arya--who was all too willing to play the part of some monster if it meant terrorizing Sansa), but admittedly she could not imagine herself marrying Brandon, for she saw him in her life almost as she saw Robb or Jon.

 

This left Cley Cerwyn. Cley was a dark brown-haired and hazel eyed boy, quite tall for his age, which was the same as Brandon Tallhart’s. He was already the height of a man grown and quite lanky because of it. As Sansa recalled last seeing him, he was all arms, legs, hands, feet, and elbows everywhere. Being quite clumsy because of it, which Sansa found rather endearing in a lost puppydog sort of way--though he would have hated to hear such a notion attached to him. He had the makings of a decent warrior one day, if he put his mind to it and filled out like the promise of his father showed. Of the three, Sansa felt she at least could come to appreciate Cley more with time. She knew him to be a polite, easy going and astute boy, who with age had developed somewhat of a mischievous side with a love for a good trick or prank. But he never was cruel about it, and he always valued a good shared laugh over feelings being hurt. And last but not least, he lived the closest of the three, at Castle Cerwyn, which was just on the other side of the White Knife where the Kingsroad crossed it. Yes, she could accept Cley Cerwyn as at least her betrothed for the time being.

 

After proposing the match to her mother, Sansa saw her mother cringe at the thought.

 

“He’s an all right boy, sweetling, but why not consider Benfred Tallhart?”

 

“He’s never seen me as anything but a little annoyance!” protested Sansa

 

Her mother began,“True, but in a few years’ time--”

 

“Mother, he may like me then for my body, but what happens when my body leaves me as old as Lady Olenna? He never liked _me_ , and that’s all he’d be left when my body has dried up.” countered Sansa.

 

Her mother appeared startled to hear such words come from her daughter.

 

“I may look two and ten, mother, but I assure you that inside I am still four and ten. I like Cley. If it absolutely came down to my _having_ to marry him, I think not I would regret it. I would prefer not to marry, all the same, but better Cley than Joffrey!”

 

Her mother still felt the need to supercede her choice, “There is still young Brandon Tallhart, I recall how close you two have been as children. It’s likely you wouldn’t become Lady of Torrhen’s Square, but I always thought that the two of you held some sort of affection--”

 

Sansa did not want to repeat the same rigmarole and decided to get straight to the point, “What do you have against Cley, mother?”

 

Her mother’s attention turned to her hands before she spoke, “Once, when he was younger, I caught him tormenting Bran when he was but a babe by holding him upside down by his feet. And the tricks he pulls can be rather pointed and sting. Robb didn’t particularly find the dead fish in his bed to be that good natured. In short, I am not sure he is all that compassionate, sweetling, and with what you’ve had to endure...”

 

“Cley isn’t cruel! True he can be a bit of a fool and he japes a bit much, but beyond that, he has the makings of a fine lord one day!” insisted Sansa.

 

Her mother sighed, knowing she wouldn’t get much farther with Sansa, then saying “If you truly wish to pursue Cley Cerwyn, I’m sure arranging a visit to Winterfell wouldn’t be out of the question. From there we can both judge his character.”

 

The visit however was delayed with everything that had happened at Winterfell--first Bran’s departure, then Uncle Edmure’s visit, followed by Theon’s disappearance, and finally her Aunt Lysa’s final demise. And now Sansa found herself once again having to serve as comforter to her sobbing small cousin Robert. The largest difference between now and then though was she found her young cousin did not try to nuzzle her, which she had to remind herself to thank Rickon for later. Her cousin spoke not when she held him, seeming not to have spoken to anyone but mother or Rickon since he’d had a shaking fit atop the ramparts after seeing his mother’s body below.

 

It was while she was in the midst of one of these silent comforting sessions with Robert that Cley Cerwyn had decided to arrive at Winterfell, and Sansa was reminded of all her plans for betrothal that had completely left her. Robert hadn’t wanted her to leave his side so soon, but she promised to return as soon as she could, which comforted the boy.

 

Cley Cerwyn met her outside of the godswood gates, and immediately she saw he was different from how she remembered him. His shoulders had broadened slightly, and while he was still as lanky as he had been, he seemed to have the beginnings of muscles developing to cover the gaps long bones exposed in his build. He wore a tunic with a battleaxe sigil of House Cerwyn upon it. He received her with more formality than he had obviously held before, and Sansa considered that her mother had probably brought up in the discussion with his father the possibility of a marriage alliance, and thus had been told to be on his best behavior. And thus began the courtship of Sansa Stark.


	25. Jon Arryn II

**JON ARRYN**

 

Jon Arryn had always known that honor was to be valued higher than any other virtue. _As High as Honor_ \--his house words challenged him to meet them in his every action as he went about his business each day. This is why when his suspicions as to the paternity of Robert’s children began to take flight, Jon knew not to move until he had definitive proof. For to make the accusation without such would go against honor of both himself and the Queen, but to hold his tongue perpetually he also knew would eventually lead to him questioning his own honor.

 

As Hand, he knew that to begin a succession crisis while on the verge of rebellion would only make matters worse, so he held his tongue. He had wanted to broach the subject with Ned, but Robert never allowed for there to be a moment between them alone long enough for Jon to share such suspicions. And thus when he was released from his obligation to Robert, he knew that his honor as ally, friend, and father-figure to Robert demanded of him that the truth be known. Doing so had even lightened his spirits slightly as he no longer focused on his own domestic troubles for the moment.

 

He had eventually found the evidence he needed in Malleon’s book, which detailed all the persons of each noble house going back to at least the days of the conquest. The evidence was simple, ALL those who married the Baratheon line produced Baratheon looking children who were black of hair and blue of eye, going back all the way to Orys Baratheon himself--most notedly a Lannister woman who’d married a Baratheon nearly a century ago had done as much. This coupled with a summoning of Mikken the blacksmith’s apprentice and the king’s own memory of his natural daughter by the name of Stone, and Robert himself was convinced of the truth in less than one telling, which was done as Jon Arryn’s household emptied the Tower of the Hand and prepared to board the _Winter’s Wind_. Events happened quite quickly after that, and at least Jon had managed to convince Robert to be subtle until the Blackfish could arrive and provide Robert support. It had take much to calm the furious Stag, but Jon at last had finally done it. Brynden would likely curse his name for leaving him such a scandal to clean up afterwards, but Jon knew that honor demanded nothing less of him, and the Blackfish would eventually see that.

 

Which is why when Tommen, Myrcella, and the blacksmith’s apprentice (he intended for the boy to apprentice in the Eyrie and come to know his half-sister, as the boy had confided in him the desire to know his family) all boarded the ship with himself, that Ned seemed perplexed. He had spent his last few hours ashore no doubt helping his son settle in as part of Stannis’ household and spent the remainder of his time speaking to him most likely on the true nature of King’s Landing, although he oddly had boarded with a Braavosi man. It wasn’t until they had set sail from King’s Landing though that the Quiet Wolf approached the Old Falcon.

 

“What are Princess Myrcella and Prince Tommen doing aboard ship?” asked Ned

 

Jon had them walk to a less occupied part of the deck--so deckhands wouldn’t overhear their conversation, “ _Officially_ , I am to foster the prince in the Eyrie, as I did for Robert, while Myrcella is to be betrothed to my son.”

 

 _My son, they’ll call him kinslayer when the truth is known…_ and Jon felt the o’erwhelming grief once again darken his spirits.

 

Ned seemed to ponder this for a moment before asking in hushed tones, “Tell me the truth, if you can.”

 

Jon was brought out of his melancholy state by this response and he felt his own suppressed anger at this terrible situation come to the surface, “The King and I have asked the same of you, Ned, and yet you tell us nothing!”

 

Ned seemed greatly affected by this, his icy Northern demeanor having since melted to some degree since they’d last met several years ago--likely due to his Tully bride, Jon figured. It wasn’t as much as say a true Southron would show, but for a Northerner, he was now rather expressive. For the first time since Ned’s childhood, Jon could clearly read the slight emotions hinted at by his face, seeing that Ned was feeling reproachful with himself over concealing howe’er he’d come to learn of the assassination attempt.

 

Finally, after some silence, Ned said, “You wouldn’t believe the truth if I told you. It is far too fantastical.”

 

“Then we are at an impasse, for I think it unlikely for you to believe the truth from me,” and Jon left Ned with the hopes that his words would gnaw away his former ward’s resolve, like it always had when he’d lived in the Eyrie.

 

And so they remained silent in each other’s company for a time. Jon thought it a blessing as it gave him time to consider what he would tell his sworn lords about Lysa’s death. He couldn’t risk letting the truth be known--they’d demand Robert to be tried for murder--even if it was an accident--and then his son would be disinherited. The issue of inheritance was fragile in the Vale, all because he had failed in his husbandly duties except with the example of young Robert. Thus the land was ripe for inheritance “games” not seen in Westeros since the time of the Five She-Wolves of Winterfell, almost a century earlier. Jon was sure if his sworn lords could find a reasonable excuse to cut his branch down so that a better arrangement with other claimants could be put in his son’s place, they would do it. This then left but two rival factions to contest for inheritance of the Eyrie and the Vale: Harry the heir and the Arryns of Gulltown, led by his distant cousin Wallys. Harry would have the better claim as his sister’s grandson, but it would be foolish of the lesser Arryns to not attempt to stage some kind of coup by buying support--the seven knew they were rich enough from their involvement in… trade. So the truth could not be known. But where was the honor in lying to his sworn lords about the death of his wife? Well saying that it had been an accident was truth enough, but leaving out that Robert had been the cause of that accident? There was little honor, and seemed rather underhanded and manipulative. _An Arryn should soar above the dirty world of politics_ , and yet had he not had to trek the muddy world of politics as Hand? But that was as Hand, now as the Lord Paramount of the Vale he had a higher standard of honor to uphold. His father, Jasper, had always maintained that it was the Arryns, the oldest and most pure-blooded of all the Andal houses that had to set an example for other houses to follow. _Where is the honorable way with which to solve this problem, father?_ This subject further troubled Jon so that he found neither sleep nor respite on the ship.

 

It was upon the ninth day of the voyage that Ned finally spoke to Jon, saying “I will tell you what I can, for it is not my story to tell.”

 

What followed was several hours of discussion of the most unbelievable of subjects. He wove a story of his four youngest children having traversed time from a different future, one of blood and civil wars, and horrors all too imaginable for the Old Falcon. One where deaths of all those they loved came and villains ruled with little consequence.

 

Jon was shocked by what he heard, so that he said, “You know not of what you speak.”

 

Ned to his credit admitted, “I knew not what to believe myself at first.”

 

“So you warned me of possible assassination all on the word of your children?!” An assassination that had been proven true, it seemed, but Jon put that aside for the moment, though taking note of it.

 

Ned here became rather fatherly, “My children spoke far too truthfully for it to not be so, and spoke of things they would not jape about… like mine and their mother’s deaths...”

 

Jon was taken aback by such an admission for a moment, but still felt curious as to what had made Ned believe this giant’s story, “What specifically convinced you?”

 

Ned met his eyes, saying, “Sansa could describe the Eyrie perfectly--not just the castle itself, but other things as well. Things you could only know if you had lived there. And since I knew she has not left the North in this life, then what other option could there be?”

 

Jon thought of a few--a personal account of the history of the Kingdom of the Mountain and Vale, the memoirs of one of its former inhabitants... but then he wondered if the girl would have had access to them given the North’s disinterest in everything south of the Neck. Finally, he said, “I will have to hear her words myself then, to know the truth for certain.”

 

Ned nodded his head, and then asked, “So tell me why Robert is making his own children to be hostages.”

 

Jon smiled knowing Ned unfortunately could be rather predictable in his thoughts-- _he shared, now I must share_ \--and then he said, “Ned, have you ever met Mya Stone?”

 

Ned looked at him with some bewilderment before nodding.

 

“And I know you have been speaking with young Gendry.”

 

Ned, like always cut to the point rather than drift on the wind, “Is he Robert’s as well?”

 

Jon snorted while saying, “Need you ask the question?”

 

“Looking at him… brings back many memories,” Ned said fondly.

 

“Aye, it does… of better times than the one we live in today.” And then he told him the truth as he knew it. Of the fact that no Baratheon had yet sired a child for it not to be born black of hair and blue of eye, and the last Lannister woman and Baratheon man had most certainly not produced children of the Lannister looks. Ned immediately froze at hearing of the discovery.

 

He spoke with a frosty conviction, “We must go back, Jon. Robert will not wait for the Blackfish to arrive.”

 

“No, I made him swear on his crown and love for me that he would not move without support.”

 

Ned cut through his believe like a sword, “When has Robert ever kept a vow he ever swore?”

 

Suddenly Jon felt a cold dread as he realized what Ned had already. Fury meant more to a Baratheon than claims of honor, and Robert knew him enough to have used his Arryn honor against him! _He swore that to make me leave and protect me… the damned fool!_

 

And then a deckhand interrupted them, “Milords, you must go ‘neath deck. The gods have not given us a favorable voyage it seems, to judge by those clouds.”

 

Jon looked to the horizon and saw the black clouds which seemed to draw ever closer. The wind seemed to pick up and he heard a distant rumble. A storm? There’d be no turning back now… they’d be lucky to yet live.


	26. Arya II

**ARYA**

 

Father and Jon were a week late in returning, and there had been no news from King’s Landing, since two raven carrying messages from Uncle Jon and Father had arrived telling them that the King had legitimized Jon, that he had received word of Theon’s death, that he and Jon were taking the next available ship home and asking for Robb to call his bannermen that were not on the Western Coast to Winterfell, make doubly sure that Moat Cailin was reinforced, and to turn the North into an impenetrable fortress. Uncle Jon’s message merely stated he was joining Father in coming North to collect his wife’s remains and take his son back to the Vale.  
  
And the entire time Arya regretted that her father had talked her into staying and protecting Mother and the family. He’d caught her with Needle. She had been so excited to receive the sword once again from Jon that she’d forgotten to hide it. Father then forced the truth out of her soon enough. Suddenly her story seemed to make more sense to him and then he reminded her that Aunt Lysa wasn’t to be trusted. He used her mistrust of her Aunt to persuade her to stay. In return she had asked that he hire Syrio while in King’s Landing so that she could continue her training, swearing that she would not come if he did so. She hated those words now… Lysa had died from her own foolishness, and here she was sitting here in Winterfell while father and Jon could have been taken hostage… or worse their boat could have sunk. The Narrow Sea was typically calm, but as Winter approached she had heard it said that more and more storms would appear.  
  
What was the worst part of this was the waiting for information. Everyone in Winterfell was waiting. Uncle Edmure was even still in the North, waiting for Jon Arryn to arrive so a proper memorial could be performed for Aunt Lysa before taking her bones back to the Vale, as his letter to Winterfell had mentioned.  
  
Wylla Manderly had not been a great comfort during all of this, she instead had decided to pester Arya with questions about Jon. Asking her what his favorite color was and other such nonsense… that is it seemed like nonsense until Arya discovered that the green-haired girl dyed her hair to the Stark gray she’d japed was his favorite color. After realizing that Wylla’s interest in her brother might be for other reasons than plain curiosity, Arya was careful about which questions she answered, and how she did so.  
  
Between Uncle Edmure, his friends, and the Bannermen from the North and the East who arrived day by day over the month from the receipt of father’s letter, the wine and ale cellar was slowly emptied, much to mother's annoyance.  
  
And then at long last a raven did arrive. It came from Barrowton, reporting that Ironborn had come up the Barrow River and were likely to take the town. At this point only the Tallharts, led by a reluctant to return Benfred, who had somehow acquired his own black eye--his young cousin Brandon appearing on his own a few days after; and the Cerwyns, led by Cley's father Medger; had arrived at Winterfell. The Hornwoods were likely to appear any day. Robb in response decided to send some of House Tallhart's forces as half of a pincher move to hopefully relieve the siege or if it had fallen, retake Barrowton. At first Benfred refused to follow Robb's command and lead the relief force:  
  
Benfred didn't even attempt to hide the animosity in his voice as he said, "Lord Stark should return soon, and he may have a better idea."  
  
The insult hung in the air between Benfred and Robb for a moment.  
  
Robb then merely looked to Grey Wind, who had grown to the size of a full-grown dog by this point, and the wolf reminded Benfred just what questioning loyalty to House Stark entailed.  
  
"Father always said that the North follows strength. I can't afford to look weak. One day I shall be Lord of Winterfell, and they'll look back on these few weeks to see what kind of lord I'll be. If I can't show them that I'm strong now, the noble houses will never listen to me when I inherit," he had said when Arya had asked him why he'd had Grey Wind bite a few of Benfred's fingers off the hand which did not wield the sword. Robb then told Benfred that his cousin Brandon would instead lead the force from Torrhend's square south. The eager boy jumped at the opportunity and accepted immediately, much to everyone's surprise. Robb later had told Arya that he had made the offer to further shame Benfred into accepting. He had wanted to tell the boy that he was too young to lead an army, but Robb thought better of it for he himself was hardly older than Brandon, and he had planned to lead some Cerwyn and Winterfell forces south along the Kingsroad and then West to approach Barrowton as the other half of the pincher move.  
  
Later Arya overheard Sansa speaking with Brandon alone in the godswood while she was praying for father's and Jon's safe return:  
  
Sansa's voice traveled clearly through the trees as she asked, "Are you trying to get yourself killed?"  
  
Brandon's voice was softer, but Arya could hear him growl in response, "You don't understand what it's like to be a son of a second son."  
  
Sansa had to nearly beg him to speak, "Then tell me... Talk to me... please!"  
  
Brandon's voice finally burst out, "I've got next to nothing promised to me!"  
  
"What about that little holdfast you always were bragging about?"  
  
"That? Oh that's not likely to happen anymore..." and Arya heard him kick a tree in response.  
  
"What happened?"  
  
He asked her as if he expected her to know without him telling her, "You do know that Benfred and Robb had a falling out over Theon, right?"  
  
"He still has the black eye," Sansa answered calmly.  
  
"Well, I gave Benfred his own, and I refused to apologize. Uncle said that I'll never get so much as a grain of sand on Evergreen Lake from him until I do. And I'm not going to, not ever. So you see, I have to do something to make a name for myself..."  
  
"But leading an army?" asked Sansa incredulously.  
  
Brandon cynically snorted, "Why not? Haven't I been training for just that possibility?"  
  
"War isn't a game, Brandon, people die!" insisted Sansa.  
  
Brandon laughed and replied, "Aye, the enemy."  
  
A silence fell between them for a moment before Sansa finally asked, "For what reason did you punch your cousin?"  
  
"I thought that'd be obvious." responded Brandon coolly.  
  
Sansa was speechless for a few moments before saying, "W--what are you trying to say?"  
  
It was Brandon's turn to be speechless. He finally did say, "You don't see it, do you?"  
  
"Brandon..."  
  
He shouted, "Why don't you just go back to Cley!" and Arya heard the boy march off through the Godswood.  
  
After Robb and Brandon Tallhart had each departed, leaving Rickon the Stark in Winterfell, another raven arrived from Bear Island reporting of Ironborn blockading and sieging the island--though not successfully. Deepwood Motte and Ryllshall* both reported that though they had been under siege but had thrown the Ironborn forces off after a few days. Moat Cailin eventually reported of the Neck being stained red with the blood of Ironborn, and that any who had not been killed had fled. Flint’s Finger reported that the Ironborn controlled the Saltspear & Blazewater Bay, though any attack on the Finger itself was made nearly impossible by the cliffs. Wyman Manderly, who had stayed behind in White Harbor while sending his knightly son with some of his forces, reported that the new fleet had nearly been acquired or built, with no news of the _Winter's Wind_.  
  
The North was at war, and Father, Jon, and Uncle Jon likely lost at sea…

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Ryllshall is the Ryswell's seat, and yes I made that up.


	27. Benjen I

**BENJEN**  
  
He was running for his life. He along with four other brothers of the Night's Watch had been sent to find Waymar Royce and his party. Instead as they drew to the borders of the Lands of Always Winter he'd come across creatures he'd only heard tell of in Old Nan's tales when he had been "the pup", whose swords had made his break in two. Fleetingly as he continued to run for his life away from the silent Others, Benjen wondered if Old Nan were still living. And suddenly in his mind he was back in Winterfell hearing Old Nan tell the tale of the Last Hero, her words comforting him as he remembered the tale. He did not however let Old Nan's tale distract him from his run. Instead he let the warm memories of his childhood fuel his desire to keep running, to make it back to the Wall, so that they would know. They had to know, so that they could prepare, so that Winterfell could prepare, so that his brother and his family could prepare.  
  
And suddenly out of nowhere in front of him, one of the Others appeared from behind a tree. He veered to the right and then yet another appeared. He went for his left and another made its presence known. More appeared until he was completely surrounded. Benjen knew in that moment he was done for. He however would not go down without a fight, and so, with his broken sword piece he attempted to hack and slash his way out of the circle of ice swords waiting to strike him, but all that got him was his sword fracturing even more and an empty hilt with which to fight.   
  
The Others seemed to enjoy taunting him in these final moments, scaring him with the thought of death as one and then another would threaten to come and end it all, but pull back when they saw him flinch or move to dodge. He did not show any fear--though he certainly felt it. He would die a Stark, even if all he had was his sword hilt to defend himself with. One of them finally swung at his right leg with one of their swords, causing him to fall to the ground as he felt a chill strike him deep to the bone as the great ice sword hit.  
  
Just as he was about to assume that there would be no escaping the gods' price, from out of the darkness then came a sight he'd ne'er seen before: a Night's Watch man bestride a great elk. As he approached he carried with him a spear, readying to strike the nearest Other that dared charge him. A few indeed did run to meet his challenge, only to be speared, or be distracted by a flock of ravens which barraged them, most missing the swipes of the ice swords, and the few that did falling to the snow, dead.  
  
Benjen watched, expecting his final moment to be of this foolish man meeting his own doom. But as the spear pierced the Other something rather peculiar occurred: it screamed in utter agony and melted. Another Other attempted to flank him on the side without a spear, but a small dagger in his other hand soon appeared and it burred into its flesh and that Other melted as well. Benjen was in awe as the figure dressed in mottled black and faded gray slew several more Others, their ice swords seeming to have little effect on when they slashed at him, though it frightened his beast. Eventually a small number of Others remained that became frightened and ran from the man in black, leaving Benjen to him.  
  
Benjen tried to pull himself up, but found it difficult with his leg as badly hit as it was. The man dismounted, and as he approached Benjen saw that the man wore a black scarf over his face and the man's face wasn't obscured by just the hood as he'd assumed earlier. This man did not want to be seen--but what nearly scared him was when he saw no breath like his emanate from where the mouth should be, but then Benjen thought it to be held behind the scarf. For how could the man move and not breathe?  
  
Finally he spoke in a rattling voice, "Are you badly injured?"  
  
Benjen found himself unable to formulate words for a moment, and deciding to show a strong front, and not be "the pup" he had retreated to in his mind before the Others had outwitted him, and he shook his head. The man did not respond at first, merely kneeling down to examine the wound that the ice sword had left on his leg.  
  
Finally Benjen found the strength in himself to ask, "Who are you, brother?"

  
The masked figure did not answer, instead standing and saying, "Come. Your watch is not complete, and you are required elsewhere." He offered his hand to help Benjen up to his feet. As he took it he found them to be the coldest hands he'd ever felt.


	28. Clyffe I

**CLYFFE**

 

“Six Stags!” insisted Clyffe for what felt like the umpteenth time.

 

He had not dragged that blasted fifteen pound salt rock. As he had entered the market of the village earlier, various people had slowly begun to congregate around him. Some trying to quietly break off a piece if they thought they could get away with doing so by offering to “help” him carry the damnable thing, others simply to watch as he set about haggling with the old gamekeeper of House Shore, who were the local lords of the village and its surrounding domains. The gamekeeper needed to restock on salt in order to preserve the game caught for the Winter everyone expected to come either this coming year or the next. Clyffe had learned from his experience with the Redcliff family, whose lands bordered the Shores, that to undersell his and Nylla’s hard work would only beget a hungry stomach, and she likely being with child (it was only a little over a moon, but it seemed less and less likely she would get her moon's blood)--he couldn’t afford to have her go hungry.

 

“Five,” responded the red-bearded gamekeeper, still coolly as ever. The only thing notable about the man was the fact his beard was red where the rest of his hair was as brown as the mud caked to their boots. The crowd hackled the man's stubbornness, and Clyffe smirked, feeling that if he didn't get a good bargain out of this deal, they'd overcharge the gamekeeper from here on out.

 

“Six!” punctuated Clyffe with his fist slamming on the table at which they sat to bargain. The Bargain Table as it was called. It was there for those too poor to own a stand were to come and sell their wares, like Nylla had done long before he'd arrived. It was in the unfavorable location of the market, the muddiest spot and the one closest to the commons where the stench of the livestock wafted ripely in the air.

 

He shook his head, his ratty brown hair too greasy to bounce as he did. “Five.”

 

Clyffe finally decided to make his move that, gods willing, would see him through, “Seven.

 

The man responded without thinking, just like he thought he would! “Six.”

 

“Done!” exclaimed Clyffe triumphantly and the crowd applauded his winnings. Clyffe however scanned the crowd looking for her--and saw her leaning against the post of a nearby stand, watching from afar with her trademark hooded cloak she ne'er let down when in the village. The gamekeeper--too full of honor and outnumbered to squelch at the moment, pulled out his coin purse and gave the appropriate amount. Clyffe having sold all his and Nylla's wares for the day collected it all in his own purse and handed the man his salt rock.

 

As the crowd dispersed, returning to their business, Clyffe proudly strutted over to Nylla and moved to great her with a kiss. She shied away from his advances, insisting that she didn't want anyone to see them.

 

"Are you ashamed of me?" asked Clyffe

 

Her eyes grew wide as she looked at him and then insisted, "Never! But people will see... my face."

 

She was talking about that ridiculous scar. When he'd first seen it he had been repelled by it for a reason he couldn't recall. Something nagged at him that he was supposed to run, flee from the gray flaky skin. But the why completely escaped him. And as he had come to be nursed by Nylla, and come to touch her, he had grown to rather like her crescent shaped gray scar. It was like a new moon to him, promising him many new and unknown things that this life brought him. The old was gone and ne'er to return he hoped, though why he hoped as much he knew not.

 

As they left the village upon the narrow dirt path which led back to the steep cliffs they carved their lives from, he continued to try and persuade her to drop the hood, but she rebuffed him with increasing reluctance each time until they came to th top of the cliffs where he finally succeeded with the sun setting on the waters of the Saltspear, and the sound of the waves lapping the shore below to give the scene a certain splendor.

 

Unfortunately after that kiss he'd suggested they continue this back in their stone hut along the shore, oh that they had stayed there in that moment for perpetuity! But alas, his desire to have her, and hers him had led to the climbing down the steep but not unmanageable descent down the cliff. As their descent rounded the side of an outcrop that blocked their view of the cottage from the the top of the cliff, it is when Clyffe felt a chill o'ertake him. Ironborn. They were a plague up and down the Saltspear, striking and raiding at random. Clyffe had thought that their small hut would've been passed over in hopes of hitting more wealthy targets, but by how he saw their belongings being thrown out the door to the hut he knew that these were desperate reavers, probably looking for food.

 

"Go back to the village, tell everyone." He wanted her and his seed within her out of danger. Then he'd strike.

 

She grasped his arm, holding him back, "I'm not leaving without you!"

 

He would have to remind her. "Argue not, Nylla! Think of the babe."

 

She only held on tighter.

 

He'd have to lie, "Go! I'll be right after."

 

And her decision was taken from her as suddenly a shout was heard below and the reavers charged to their position. Nylla instinctively ran, and Clyffe turned and blocked the ascending men. His fists were his only weapons as he charged with the hopes of giving Nylla enough time to escape.


	29. Davos I

**DAVOS**  
  
The Onion Knight. His greatest feat that had earned him his greatest reward, and cost him dearly, nonetheless as he flexed his his half-fingered left hand, he thought it well worth it. Stannis Baratheon, who had taken the first joint from each of his fingers for smuggling, but left him the rest of his hand and gave him land and status for smuggling supplies into Storm's End when it was under siege, was a tough man, but a good one.   
  
Stannis could perhaps be blinded to the fact that not every man was like himself, though. And despite having lived three and thirty years, Davos thought Stannis still belabored under the impression that others ought to be more like him, or at least endeavor to do so if they were not, like Davos did.  
  
Davos meanwhile from his years of smuggling had learned that this was not a detriment, but often a hidden blessing to keep the long voyages interesting. He also found it a challenge to figure out the blind spots of a potential foe or purchaser--reading a person so unlike you and outwitting them was half the sport in smuggling. But since he'd become a knight with honor like his liege's, he had tried to put that aside. Though he still recalled it enough to try and make use of the skill if the situation called for it. And this was a situation which called for it.  
  
His latest orders from the King were that he were to take in the legitimized bastard son of Eddard Stark, on whom Stannis held a slight grudge for receiving praise at relieving the siege at Storm's End, while Stannis had received no thanks whatsoever in even holding Storm's End at all.   
  
"I know not why my brother continues to insult me in this manner!" he huffed a little loudly from his solar of his private house in the capital that he took use of when staying in King's Landing on business as Master of Ships. The King, his brother, seemed to think that since Stannis' seat at Dragonstone were but an "easy journey" for his brother, it not necessary to provide accomodations within the Red Keep itself, which further strained the relations between the two men.  
  
"I think he has done you a great service, milord."  
  
"Do you?" and that habit of Stannis' for grinding his teeth made an appearance.  
  
"Indeed. Did not this boy earn his legitimization through the preservation of the life of his trueborn siblings? Or did the rumors speak falsely?" Davos had heard the stories rumored all through   
  
Stannis admitted gruffly, "It is what was proclaimed."  
  
"Then it appears your brother can recognize when two people might have enough in common. Mayhaps this son of Lord Stark's likewise holds to your opinion on the value of getting what one earns.  
  
"I'll soon discover this for myself. If he be all that..."  
  
Lord Stark's arrival at the great house with his legitimized son occurred scarecely after the arrival of the letter. Never had Davos seen a son look so alike his father, and he could easily see why the Lord would take the child in and raise him alongside his trueborn children--whom Davos had heard tell of more resembled their mother than him. The boy came dressed in Stark colors, but with the inverse colors of his sigil in the form of his full-grown pet dog. Aye, if the Lord had seen to giving him such a pet, he truly did favor the boy. After the Lord and his son's heartfelt departure, the young man reported to Stannis like a young sailor might before his captain.   
  
In these first moments, the boy made a favorable impression upon Davos. In many ways, actually the boy reminded him of a younger and slightly more vulnerable version of Stannis he had met when he first had come under his employ. That siege had toughened Stannis to hard-wrought steel. In that moment wondered if the same fate lay in store for Jon Stark, under Stannis' supervision. Neither the boy nor Stannis spoke at first, both simply staring at one another and trying to read each other from across the room before. Davos felt both were likely to make wrong impressions of the other, if allowed to continue on in this silence. At long last, Stannis finally broke the silence.  
  
"I have been commanded by his grace, my brother, to take you on as a ward and teach you the ways of ship and sea."  
  
"His grace suggested as much to my father, my lord, after my lord father told him of his plans that he would like for me one day to have the ability to lead a navy. The King even complimented your skill."  
  
"That's a lie. I will not tolerate lies to be spoken in my presence. My brother never compliments myself."  
  
"I speak truly, my lord. To quoth him, he said to my lord father, "whom better to teach your son than the man who destroyed the Iron Fleet?"."  
  
Davos noticed that news of his brother's regard for his naval prowess did not please the man, likely because he heard it not from the man himself, but through another. Despite his steel exterior, Davos could see straight through his lord to the child he had like been before he'd met him. A second son, always desiring a way for recognition, only to never recieving it, contenting himself to the lesson he should not desire recognition for his achievements, though he did. Looking to his elder brother's recognition once his parents' had died. Stannis most likely thought that child long dead, starved out of affection during the siege--but Davos could still catch hints of it's minimal existence from time to time. Now was one of those times.  
  
"Do you yourself believe what my brother has told you?"  
  
"Aye, my lord. I learned all about your plan of Fair Isle and capture of Old Wyk in my lessons as a child."  
  
"You're still a child, boy if you think that. I myself did not destroy the Iron Fleet alone and would not have it said so. I had the support of all the captains sworn to me, whom put their trust in me as their commander to lead them true. This I did, but without the loyalty and respect of those captains, such as Ser Davos here, I am sure you would have heard a very different story from my brother's lips. Never undervalue the contributions of others, do you understand me, boy?"  
  
Davos noticed within the lad a slight bristle at being called, boy, but he was smart enough not to make mention of the offense, and merely nodded in agreement.  
  
"What do you know about a ship?"  
  
"You tie a sail to a mast and the wind pushes it across the waves, my lord."  
  
Stannis did not seem amused at the cheek of the Stark and said as much. He then rose and walked over to one of the shelves of books along the walls of his house and looking for a title eventually pulled out one and tossed it to the lad, who caught it.  
  
"I presume you know how to read, boy?"  
  
"Why wouldn't I, my lord?" The boy took offense at the suggestion he might be unable.  
  
"Ser Davos here cannot read, though he is not so well sired as you. Once you have read this book in its entirety from cover to cover and can satisfy to me your knowledge, I will then take over your instruction. Until that time, Ser Davos here shall take you aboard his vessel."  
  
"I'm to live aboard ship?" asked the boy incredulously.  
  
Stannis snorted slightly before saying darkly, "Where else do you think to learn about one, 'neath the ground?"  
  
It was then that they were interrupted by a messenger from the King, who delivered a written message. Stannis read the lines on the page with ease and then took himself aside, to speak with him in some sense of privacy.  
  
"Ser Davos, I need not remind you to see to it that he earns his right to stay aboard the ship."  
  
"No, my lord," replied Davos.  
  
"Keep the boy close. Don't let him out of your sight. I have been summoned by my brother to the palace on most urgent business. I will see you on the morrow to hear more of the lad," and with that said, Lord Stannis dismissed them.  
  
Davos then took the boy and his few belongings down to the docks. The white dog following loyally behind them as they did so.   
  
As they walked through the streets of the city, Davos observed to the boy, "You'll have to leave the dog, boy. He'll be a distraction aboard ship."  
  
The lad was determined, "Ghost stays with me, and he is no dog."  
  
Davos put aside the lad's refusal to part with his pet, it reminding him of his own sons' stubbornness at first and deciding to return to it at a later point. Instead he asked, "What is he then? A wolf?"  
  
The boy elucidated as they dodged the crowded streets, "Aye, a direwolf. The living embodiment of my house's sigil. All my siblings have one. A gigantic she-wolf was found in the Wolfswood and came to Winterfell to give birth to a litter."  
  
Queer tale to explain a dog to a boy, but Davos decided that he'd allow the lad some vestige of his family. He'd want his sons to have as much. Doubting the nature of the beast though, he simply added, "I heard they were larger."  
  
"He is just a pup," was the lad's only reply.  
  
Then deciding that if the boy truly wanted his pet aboard he'd give him his first test, "If he grows any larger you'll have to cut your rations to feed him, or work twice as much to earn his place aboard ship."  
  
"I will work and so will he," was the boy's stoic response.  
  
Davos chuckled at the thought--a dog earn his keep? He would love to see that day! But the boy had replied rightly, though it remained to be seen if there was more than just wind behind his words. Good naturedly he added, "Aye, I believe you will."  
  
After finding Jon Stark a hammock to sleep in below decks he then set a bucket and brush before the boy and told him that his first lesson about ships would be in maintenance.  
  
"A ship is only as good as her weakest part. And when a ship has been sitting at port is when she is the most vulnerable to damages and disrepair. Ships are not made for port, and fare not well in them. For it is not so much the use of a ship's parts, but the under use of them which wears them out the quickest. Before setting sail you must always check that every part is in good working order--for once you have left port, if anything were to break on your journey, it could mean life or death out there on the seas. You understand boy?"  
  
The lad was if anything, respectful as he said, "Aye, Ser."  
  
"The first step to maintaining a good ship is cleanliness. Now, I want you to scrub the rear deck before this evening's meal. Were you working alone I'd ask for only half, but since you have your wolf to help you, I see no reason why it should take you two any more time than it would to do half as much."  
  
He then left the lad and his pet at it, while he met with his second in command, his son Matthos, who informed him of the status of the ship in his own compartments.  
  
"Who's the boy?" asked his dark haired son as he took a seat Davos had offered.  
  
"He's Lord Stark's legitimized bastard. Apparently he is to learn about ships with Lord Stannis so he might one day be an admiral of his father's ships."  
  
Matthos looked confused at this news, "The North has a fleet?"  
  
"Apparently it will," said Davos.  
  
Just then a deckhand came to them to announce that two Goldcloaks had boarded without permission, requiring his presence atop deck to speak with him. Davos immediately wondered what the Goldcloaks could be desire of him. He soon found the two men, who looked little better than thugs with cloth of gold draped from their armor.  
  
"Captain Davos, by the order of the Queen, The traitor Lord Stannis' ward, Jon Stark, is required to come with us."  
  
Traitor? Just exactly what had happened in the Red Keep in the last few hours? Davos shot subtle looks to his deckhands, telling them to be ready at a moment's notice. He would not fail his lord's command to keep the boy--especially if the Queen was falsely accusing his liege a traitor. It had to be false, Stannis would not move against his brother. The Queen must have seized power!  
  
In the meanwhile he bought his deckhands some time by continuing to drag out the conversation. "Sers, you are aware that I am under command to see to it that his ward begins his naval education, do you not?"  
  
"He may continue it ashore. The Queen desires the boy, captain."  
  
"When does the Queen order Goldcloaks? What has happened to the King?"  
  
"The King has taken ill. It appears the Targaryeon legacy lives through him and his treacherous brothers. The boy, captain."  
  
Upon hearing that, Davos gave the signal and his deckhands took the Goldcloaks by surprise, knocking them out with only a little bit of a scuffle. They then unceremoniously tossed them into the waters of the bay. These would not be the only men, there would be more of them. And if they reported true, the Lord Stannis was a prisoner of the Red Keep. He could hardly sneak into the Keep with his deckhands, nor could he stay in port a moment longer before likely joining his lord in where'er the Queen had placed him, and then who would come to his lord's aide, or tell the world of her unjust claims? He'd have to sail for Dragonstone and gather the support of Lady Selyse the rest of the fleet, and then he would return for his lord.


	30. Robb III

**ROBB**

 

The Barrowlands were a land of grassy plain dotted with barrows or hilled graves of the First Men who'd had their Kingdom first centered here. The Great Barrow, upon which Barrowton surrounded and the hall of House Dustin sat, was said to be the grave of the first king of the First Men, or perhaps a King of the Giants--it depended upon whom you asked. Though it left one thing for certain, Barrow Hall, the seat of House Dustin, should be highly defensible. And yet it had somehow fallen to the Ironborn--why, Robb could not comprehend. Had they swarmed here and sent minor forces to all other points? And why were they holding onto and defending the fortified hall? Ironborn reaved and then left after taking what they wanted.  
  
It neither mattered why these things were so, only that they were. And so Robb found it fell to him to deal with the Ironborn who remained. When he and Brandon Tallhart had set forth from Winterfell with troops from Houses Tallhart, Cerwyn, and Winterfell, he had heard the whispers on the mouths of his father's elder bannermen: "the Children's Campaign". At the time he had scoffed, but soon he realized that in a way, that was the potential for his future, should he fail. He would go down as a tragic character akin to brave Dany Flint in the tales of the North for some future Old Nan figure to tell his great-grandnieces and nephews--and Robb did not care to be remembered as such. He would be a warrior, and even if the gods had changed his fate to keep him from being a King, he would still strive to be worthy of such a title.  
  
This he had determined would be the trial of fire with which he would finally prove his meddle to all the type of lord and man he would be, and it seemed as much true for Brandon. Though he had not time to assess what drove the boy just a year his junior--soon to fourteen to his newly minted fifteen--he knew that something spurred him on for something greater than he'd been given in life. That was the only reason why when they had arrived at the wooden walled fortifications of Barrow Hall Robb could justify just how rashly the boy through himself into battle, leading as though he himself had nothing to lose and everything to gain. Seeing him in the battle from afar made him feel a competitive spirit he'd not felt since Jon had left Winterfell, and so Robb, felt likewise to do as he had always done with Jon--to match and outdo him.  
  
Taking the town had proven easy enough, it was storming the fortified hall that had proven challenging. But soon one of the wooden turtles was wheeled wooden fortress and its gates were smashed in. During the ensuing fight through the gates, Robb dodge burning oil and took and arrow to his arm, but he still continued to lead, though nearly his entire body wished to crumple up and fall away.

 

_Northmen follow strength! I must be strong!_

 

They poured into the wooden castle itself to find Barrow Hall a destroyed mess of itself. Despite the looks and arrows from outside, only a small handful of Ironborn held it it seemed, whom were met and deftly killed--Robb taking out a few himself. Something was wrong, this was easy... far too easily retaken. Still, he and Brandon personally searched the castle with a small portion of their force for any sign of Lady Dustin, his father's only sworn bannerwoman. As they came upon room after room it looked like the Ironborn had taken the castle during the night, for they found many rotten corpses home to maggots laying peacefully in their beds. The room that had been Lady Dustin's apparently had the worst of the mess, the body looked to have been raped from the bruisings her disfigured naked body showed and savagely tortured before being killed. Out of some concern for common decency in death Robb draped a fur over her maggot infested body, while Brandon offered a prayer to the gods to give her rest. Was this the fate that all the rest of his father's bannermen would've faced had they not warned them to reinforce their holdfasts and be on the look out? Had Lady Dustin thought herself far too inland to heavily fortify, despite being on the Barrow River? Had she been slacking in her duty to her people? And had this been the gods' punishment to her for failing to heed their warnings? _What if this had been mother at Winterfell?_ Robb shuddered with the thought. Winterfell would be secure, from this day forward--of that he would be sure. A tightly locked fortress impenetrable to outsiders. He would rebuild the Broken Tower, repair the older parts of the castle that were slowly turning to ruin, and make Winterfell a mighty fortress to behold instead of just an ancient one.  
  
Still, something put him off about the entire affair this battle had been won far too quickly and without much loss of life. It felt like a...  
  
And then he smelled it--smoke! While they had been searching the wooden castle, it had been set aflame. Immediately both Brandon and Robb along with their small number of men rushed out of the room. The castle, being made of extremely dry wood went up like a tinderbox, and soon Robb found himself coughing, and eyes watering as he stumbled his way through the smoke filled corridors that soon turned aglow with orange the further down they crept as they bent low to keep from inhaling as much smoke. Along the way Brandon and Robb lost their men, having become confused and lost their way through the passageways that seemed to lead to nothing but blocked exits--most definitely this was a trap!  
  
When a part of a burning wall came collapsing towards him, Brandon shoved him out of the way, entrapping himself beneath. Robb, knowing it was foolhardy grabbed Brandon's one arm and pulled him out from under the beams. The right side of his upper body, from his chest to his head were aflame, and Robb did as best as he could to smother the flames, not completely succeeding, as the writhing and shouting Brandon terrified his sight and horrified his ears.  
  
It surprisingly was from the fallen wall that they found their escape, as it was on the second level and easy to jump from. Robb took the burned Brandon upon his shoulders and trusted in himself as he leaped for the ground. He distinctly felt his one ankle twist when he made contact, but he'd take that over death any day. Once to the dry dirt of the courtyard he was surrounded by the men which they had been separated from in the smoke and they helped both him and Brandon out of the fire trap of the castle and through the burning gates. Barrowton was simultaneously being evacuated and the other lining up water lines from the nearest wells in an attempt to douse houses near by the Barrow hill with water to prevent them from easily catching flame too. Everyone took Barrow Hall to be too far gone to be salvageable.  
  
"It was a flaming arrow, milord, that came from somewhere in the town," explained one of his men as they made their way to his father's battlefield tent that he had taken for his own.  
  
"Did you catch the bastard that shot it?" asked Robb hazily as a Maester was brought to attend his wounds.  
  
"No milord."  
  
 _Damn the Ironborn to their Storm God._

 


	31. Osha I

**OSHA**

 

They were being followed south. Two crows of death followed behind them, plaguing their every step. The past few days had seen their party slowly one by one dwindle and die when a member decided to wander off on their own alone--such as to relieve oneself or to hunt for some kind of food on these abandoned moorlands. And of course after each death they had to stop and burn the body, which slowed down their pace further as they had to scavange the better of the abandoned huts for wood to burn, and the pyres left a clear trail of dead bodies for any to follow.

 

It was now down to herself, the crannog girl, the crow, and her little brother Rickwyle. Mayhaps these crows were signs from the gods themselves that they had done wrong to take the girl. But what was done could not be undone, if she were let loose, she would crow to others of their presence and their strategem would be at an end. They might as well climb back over the wall if they let her go. Mayhaps that's what the gods wanted? But why then abandon their people to the Others for slaughter? Had they done something for which the Others were their divine retribution? Osha knew not, but she prayed for wisdom nonetheless on how to continue. But the gods answered her not on these empty moorlands. She needed to find a Weirwood--and to do that they needed to find the great Wolf's wood she'd heard the crow mention.

 

This night on their journey to find the Wolf's Wood they had reached an abandoned stone hut close to the wide path that led south, and they took shelter of the hut to get out of the fierce moorish wind that rattled without obstruction across the empty lands.

 

Rickwyle still urged that they turn back North with the girl as hostage--whom the crow had recognized in the light as the King of the crannogmen's daughter by the black creature pictured upon her clothes--but Osha had insisted that they needed more than just a hostage for Mance, they needed information and most of all the gods' blessings. The crows had perched at the top of the hut and cawed out into the night, giving their divine warning that yet another of their . Mayhaps they might be so blessed that it might be their brother in black, so that she wouldn't have to keep him from harming the girl yet another night. The girl, whose hands had been tied together with some old rope they'd found in the "barn" as the crow called it, in all the travel had chosen to remain tight-lipped, refusing even harmless Rickwyle's attempts to bring her good cheer with a jape.

 

As they settled in for the night, Osha thought she heard something disturb the ice-frosted grass outside the hut, but she knew better than to go out alone, and so she shook the crow awake and dragged him out with her, leaving Rickwyle, who was supposed to be awake first to be on watch, to watch the girl. Damnable crow could keep his mouth shut as he complained about being woken up. They patrolled the outside of the hut, and found nothing--that is until she heard Rickwyle scream.

 

Immediately she abandoned the crow and ran as fast as she could to return back into the hut, there she saw her little brother being mauled by a silver covered direwolf pup the size of a dog, it's teeth bearing into his throat. the girl was nowhere to be seen, probably making a run for it once the wolf had pounced. The utter agony of her brother's screams made her forget her spear, and she charged and pushed the wolf off of Rickwyle with her bear hands. The wolf was easy to shove aside as a dog, and yelped at being thrust so. Immediately she checked to see how injured her brother was. The wolf had not yet finished ripping his throat out, but had punctured quite deep. He would not live long. The beast would pay. Immediately she pulled the dagger she'd taken from the crannog girl and lunged after the wolf. The beast darted and ran out the door, she followed it but soon felt a bloodied pronged spear in her path, nearly impaling herself on it before stopping herself.

 

There before her stood a stringy thin man, brown of hair and beard and green of eyes--just like the crannog girl... likely her father, the King Crannogman. Behind him stood two boys, one was likely his son, by the resemblance he held to his father, and the other had hair kissed by fire with eyes as blue as the Antler, and looked to be a kneeler to this King of the Marshes. He looked to the wolf and wordlessly it came to him... a skinchanger mayhaps? The boy with a head as red as fire then looked at her and suddenly some form of recognition came over the boy's eye.

 

"Kill her not!" He urged.

 

"She held my daughter hostage, my little Lord," replied the crannogman with an eeire softness that sent a shudder down Osha's back.

 

Lord? Why was the King of the Marshes giving way to this boy? She then heard her brother gurgle from behind her, "Put down... the spear!"

 

She turned to see her brown of hair, beard, and eye brother had forced himself to stand, holding out his own dagger in his trembling hands. Blood flowing from the wound at his neck. He began to sway on his feet. Immediately she dropped the dagger in her hands and caught her brother as he fell, and eased him down to the earth of the floor. The crannog king remained where he was, his spear adjusted to remain a threat to her life, but she cared not. All that mattered in this moment was Rickwyle.

 

"I'm sorry..." he burbled, more blood flowing from his neck.

 

"Shhh, my babe of a brother... no words need be said..."

 

From afar she heard the Marsh King murmur "give them peace", and she felt grateful for that. She held her brother for his final moments in her arms, neither feeling the need to speak when all was better left unspoken. He looked to her frightened of leaving her, like the little boy who had in their youth curled next to her when the wind and the rain had threated to blow down their hut, and she held him closer, tears falling, until eventually his eyes lost what made him him, and he was no more.


	32. Catelyn III

**CATELYN**

 

Catelyn sat in Ned's solar, as she did every day. If Rickon were older she'd spend time trying to teach him how to be a lord, but she knew that e'en though he was a five year old in mind, he still very much had all the tendencies and most importantly the attention span of the three year old that he was again.

 

As the babe in her stomach grew-- _oh such a time to have a child!_ \--news from King's Landing finally arrived, but it gave Catelyn little if any comfort. The letter was from the Queen and addressed to her goodbrother, Lord Arryn. Catelyn felt wrong reading his letters, feeling like she was opening one of her father's, but she was so desperate of news of Ned that she could not stand to not read it.

 

_My Lord Arryn,_

_We thank you for your loyalty to the realm in recognizing the king's disease, and securing the safety of his children. Though we wish you had left us some warning before your unexpected departure, for it has cost our family dearly. In the King's Targaryeon-inherited mad rage he did kill our eldest son, our beloved Joffrey, and was of course egged on by those most treacherous of brothers of his. Your words at the trials of his treacherous brothers would prove weighty, and though we are loathe to urge you to travel again while you are in mourning, we would request that you come as quickly as it takes to deliver your late wife's bones to the Vale and then set out for the capital with the Prince and Princess. Naturally your having secured the safety of Prince Tommen and Princess Myrcella from the King's wrath is to be congratulated and rewarded. And shall be when you return with the Prince and Princess, for though we are a Baratheon by marriage, we forget not our Lannister roots and shall pay our debts to you in full._

_Cersei Daria_

 

The King had gone mad? Had Ned told him the truth? The crowned prince had been killed? Sansa would rejoice at this news... but there was yet nothing of Ned in this letter. From the arrival of this letter, Catelyn could see that the Lannister woman assumed that Ned and Jon would have returned safely to Winterfell by this point. So there was no purpose in applying to King's Landing for more information as to their whereabouts. apparently with their own inquires being made to Winterfell. But why would Ned and Jon fly with hostages?

 

But this was yet not the only letter she had received this day, she adjusted herself in her husband's chair in the solar as she pulled out three letters, one addressed to her and the other two to Ned. The one addressed to her was from Robb--his messy scrawl giving him away. The first of the other two she could tell was from her... nephew, recognizing his neat handwriting. But why would he be writing to Ned? Had they separated? She would leave that to last. The other addressed to her husband surprisingly enough came from Eastwatch-by-the-Sea as she recognized the black seal and supposed the letter E to mean Eastwatch. Though she knew that the letter from the Night's Watch was most likely the most important of the three, Catelyn delved into Robb's letter.

 

_Mother,_

_Barrowton has been relieved. Lady Dustin is dead, and there appears to be no Dustin left. I would appreciate your advice on how to proceed as there seems to be many minor lords whom would claim a chance at having the Lordship through some distant relation to the Dustins. I have listed the five major claimants on the second sheet and noted their connections to the Dustin family. These are the closest claimants of Dustin blood within them, that have come forth to me._

_If you have heard news, pray tell me if father has sent word of his return._

_Your dutiful son,_

_Robb_

 

On the second sheet of paper she o'erlooked the names and frowned. Had the Dustins dwindled as a family this much?

 

_Lord Stout -- descended eleven generations from Fywyn Dustin's second daughter_

_Lord Harrion -- descended eleven generations from Roderick Dustins' second son's daughter_

_Lord Barrows -- descended twelve generations from Roderick Dustin's eldest daughter_

_Lady Grey -- descended thirteen generations from Willam Dustin's fourth daughter's daughter_

_Lord Greengrass -- descended fourteen generations from Tybolt Dustin's third son's daughter_

 

Would that she could come herself, but that would mean leaving Rickon, leaving Winterfell rudderless, and abandoning her nephew Robert whom had only just begun to recover from the death of his mother. He was still quiet and sometimes clung to either Sansa or herself, but both Rickon and her brother had proven to work upon the lad to come out of his silent shell. Edmure took care to teach his nephew the basics of archery, stating that though he was too young to learn on a true bow, it could not hurt to begin on a piece of string tied to either end of a stick along with blunted arrows to get him used to the motions of archery, as he had at the boy's age. No, she would have to content herself to assisting from afar. Besides if she left that damnable black and white wolf pup was apt to follow her as the mother had long since abandoned her pups and returned to the wood.

 

It was then that Sansa entered the light filled solar.

 

"I thought you were with your intended." The Cerwyn boy was not betrothed at all to Sansa, though seemed to expect from the invitation that he was permitted to woo her. As such he had taken some casual liberties to speaking for her mind at moments, assuming a rather casual demeanor with her daughter, and continuing his streak of childish pranks upon her siblings. The effect was as Catelyn had expected, Sansa was coming to realize more and more the true self-absorbed nature of the boy she had thought she'd known, but that Catelyn had seen at a glance.

 

And though Catelyn could tell that Sansa had sought refuge with her in Ned's solar to escape Cley Cerwyn, he was not the first concern with which she addressed her.

 

"Is there any news of Father?" she asked quite anxiously. Her eyebrows dipping on the far ends.

 

Catelyn answered honestly, "None so far. Though I have a letter from... your half-brother."

 

Sansa rebuffed, "How hard is it to say his name, mother?"

 

Catelyn was silent for a moment before looking Sansa in the eye to say, "I can accept much, and with time think better o'him. Howe'er to expect myself to put aside feelings garnered o'er the past fifteen years o'ernight... I cannot."

 

Sansa seemed to accept this and reproached the subject, "Did you read his letter?

 

Catelyn sighed before saying, "No. It's addressed to your father."

 

Sansa's eyes grew wide at this, "But Jon was with father..."

 

Please let him have been warded elsewhere, "Unless they were separated."

 

Sansa snatched her nephew's letter from her and opened it.

 

Sansa summarized as she read, "Jon is with Ser Davos Seaworth by Stannis Baratheon's command... He reports that the Queen has captured the Baratheon brothers and taken them hostage in the Red Keep along with the King! ... Then he speaks of how he was almost taken hostage, but escaped. ... He cannot say where he is at the present but he will continue to write as oft as he is able."

 

_By the Seven, I would not have cared for that. Let him be away, but safe and not a prisoner. What happened in King's Landing? These pieces are vexing to put together!_

 

Catelyn offered the last letter she had received, "Mayhaps this letter will hold some sort of answer." Though she doubted it, as it was addressed to her husband.

 

_To Lord Eddard Stark, if he live,_

_While engaging in a practice naval exercise between the coast and Skagos we came across some wreckage of a ship with three survivors, Lord Arryn, the Princess Myrcella, and a blacksmith's apprentice--all nearly frozen to death in the Bay of Seals. Lord Arryn mentioned that in a previous storm further south you and your Braavosi man had been thrown o'erboard by a wave he guessed somewhere along the Northern coast. He had hopes you had washed ashore and had returned to Winterfell by this point. If this be not the case, then I apologize to House Stark for giving false hope. Lord Arryn asks me to write to say that by the time you or your son receive this letter, he and his companions shall begin their journey to Castle Black, from which they mean to take the King's Road south to Winterfell and be there within a month._

_Cotter Pyke, Eastwatch Commander_

 

Ned had been tossed o'erboard the ship before it had sunk in the Bay of Seals. He could have washed ashore anywhere from White Harbor to Karhold...

 

"Sansa, get me Maester Luwin immediately!"

 

He had to have lived, he simply had to. _Leave me not Ned, not with this little one on the way... not now!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> According to the Dothraki Wiki on Valaryian, Daria means Queen. Thus Cersei is signing her letter like a medieval queen would. Ex: Elizabeth Regina.


	33. Robb IV

**ROBB**

 

He was getting sick and tired of hearing suits from all the claimants to House Dustin. The maester told him he needed rest, but he also knew the small folk needed a Lord to defend them and keep the peace. At the moment Brandon Tallhart had stepped up as a temporary lord to help with the smaller matters of Barrowton so that Robb could have some rest, though the larger ones, such as finding the Dustin family heir so that there would once again be a Lord or Lady of the Barrowlands, fell to him. Even the Ryswells of the Rills were staking a claim to add it to their already extensive holdings, upon the fact that Lady Barbrey had been a Ryswell by birth and ruled the Barrowlands in her own right for nigh five and ten almost six and ten years. That would certainly be an easy way to settle the claim, but mayhaps it might be too much land for them to protect with reavers pestering the shores?

 

Lady Dustin should've chosen an heir of Dustin descent... mayhaps she did--but who? Any will she would have made was gone with the destruction of Barrow Hall.

 

Lord Harwood Stout, a grizzled man dark blond of hair, brown of eyes, and missing an arm, was once again boring him with the details of his family tree and impressing that he had the most recent blood of all the Dustin family claimants. He was accompanied by his three identical sons of the same age: Tybolt, Willam, and Rickard. They were a year younger than himself and they seemed hard pressed to be in the same tent with one another and not argue or throw a punch.

 

"Boys! Behave!" roared Lord Harwood.

 

"But Will began it." pouted Rickard, the youngest.

 

"Then be a man and let it drop!" urged their father. Rickard fumed, but said nothing.

 

"Ah, children..." said Lord Stout to Robb as if he would understand.

 

"I have heard your suit Lord Stout and am considering the request as I hear others--"

 

"But I have the best blood claim!" insisted Lord Harwood.

 

Robb was tired of hearing that from every far-related Dustin relative to come through his tent, "And how can you be sure of that, Lord Stout?"

 

"Because from Fywyn Dustin down to the late Lord Willam, the Dustins have had nothing but a string of only sons who survived to adulthood. One way or another their wives and other children seemed cursed to die tragic, horrible deaths... that is of course until the Lady Barbrey survived Lord Dustin's tragic horrible death... but in the end, I guess the curse got her."

 

"Liar!" shouted Rickard, who seemed intent on causing his father trouble.

 

"I'll thrash your hide raw if you dare accuse me of that!" snapped Lord Harwood.

 

Robb had had enough. Ignorning the pain of his wrapped elbow he stood and curtly dismissed the four Stouts from his sight, saying he would give the matter some thought. Outside he heard reveling, as his men celebrated their own accomplishments. Robb did not feel like celebrating--not after nearly dying in a trap laid especially for him. So it was then that Robb was left to enjoy the silence of his tent in peace. Had Barrow Hall still stood, he might've taken up residence there, but since it did not he stayed in his tent.

 

He hobbled back over to his cot, using the Y-branch stick that had been fetched for him to help return to his cot. It upset the Maester to have him rise out of bed so oft, but Robb did not like to sit abed when he was needed. But now in these quiet moments, only faintly disturbed by the sound of merriment, did he stretch himself out further on his cot, wincing in pain at moving his leg, and close his eyes. He did not fall asleep, but he thought he imagined himself in Winterfell, playing with the wolves--though the position seemed all wrong, and he was play biting, the dirt covered fur and the stench of the unbated black packbrother he played with he could taste in his mouth! He was rough housing as though he himself were a wolf! It must be a day dream... unless...

 

And Robb was brought back to himself for a moment, wondering why Bran could have chosen to left now of all times, when he needed him to explain what being a "warg" meant. Was he one too? Or was he only wishing he were?

 

It was in this state of alertness that he saw a girl he first mistook at first for for Arya--only slightly older, mayhaps a year younger than him, or two--appeared. He noticed through his half-closed eyes that her cloak, which was shabby and worn thin like her dress, had a Stark gray direwolf running atop a brown lower field with a green barrow directly behind it and a white sky above.

 

The Lady cleared her throat, and Robb play acted rousing from a nap.

 

Continuing to play the part of the roused sleeper, he said, "Returned so soon, Lord Stout? I thought I told--and whom is this I find in my tent?"

 

She replied bluntly, but with no hint of apology "A humble Barrowstark, my lord. Lyanna Barrowstark. I come to suit for mine and my brothers' rights in inheritance."

 

Barrowstark?! That name rung a bell in Robb's head, and suddenly he remembered that the Barrowstarks had been the original Lords of the Barrowlands and built Barrow Hall--like the Greystarks had originally been Lords of what became White Harbor. And like the Greystarks, the Barrowstarks had risen in rebellion with the Boltons against the ruling Stark King of the time. But Robb had thought the family eliminated like the Greystarks had been, as their lands and titles had been given to the Dustins. If Robb recalled his Northern history correctly the Dustins had originally been stewards to the Barrowstarks, but had switched sides during the rebellion, and been instrumental in bringing about the downfall of the Barrowstarks.

 

"House Barrowstark?" questioned Robb.

 

"Aye, my lord," and Lyanna curtsied as she replied, pulling her brown and green dress up as she did. Robb couldn't help but notice some sections were stitched to hide a hole of small proportion--and the thought led him to think of how many dresses Sansa used to toss for ripping or tearing, let alone getting dirty. Suddenly he felt like he knew an extravagance that this girl had ne'er seen in her life.

 

"What is this issue of inheritance, that you come to speak with me about?" asked Robb, sitting up.

 

She got right to the point, "Two issues my lord. The one I come most eagerly to is that my father's small holdfast, which was ta'en by those vile Ironborn, should not upon the departure of you be claimed by some knight which would seek to call it his own."

 

"Which holdfast, my lady?" asked Robb.

 

She replied swiftly, "I am no lady, your lordship. It be not but a barrowknight's keep by the town's south gates. It doubles as a watch tower for the town. Mine great-grandfather did build it with his own hands and dubbed it without any imagination, Southgate. He meant for it to be a home for our family to have something to call our own. It has not been much and it is quite costly to maintain and still eat, but it is ours. I would hate to see it depart our family on account that we had the misfortune to not apply for it."

 

"Forgive me... cousin?"

 

"Aye, but such a distant relation it is hardly worth noting," replied Lyanna.

 

Robb continued further, measuredly saying "Remind me, if you will, of the past fortunes of the Barrowstarks, for I seem to forget the connection to mine own family at present. Then in exchange, I will with see your brothers' suit fulfilled."

 

She blithely explained, "It comes from the time when Starks were Kings, my lord. King Dorren's second son, Artos Stark was given the lands including the Barrows and told to build a fort to defend the surrounding farmlands of the Barrows against the Marsh King. Thus Barrow Hall came to be built."

 

"And was it not in rebellion that your family did meet its ruin?" asked Robb.

 

"Aye it did. Will you grant the suit for my brothers?" asked Lyanna.

 

Robb paused before answering, using the opportunity to reserve a good look at his distant cousin as he then spoke the two words which would transform her anxiety into joy: "I will," and he was glad at having secured a view of such a transformation in his distant cousin. Her smile seemed to bring with it great merriment of its own

 

"And to your second request?" asked Robb.

 

Lyanna's joy was placed back beneath a solemn face that resembled ever so slightly similar looks made by Jon and his father, "I know that I have no proper claim, but did I hear rightly you were asking for all those whom had Dustin blood in them?"

 

Robb sighed and tried to guess how many generations it took the Barrowstarks to become so desperate as a family to marry into the family which had once been their stewards. He guessed fifteen generations back, that seemed to be an appropriate amount of time for there to have been extra Dustins a plenty to marry.

 

He sighed, by now it had almost become routine to ask, "From which Dustin do you lay claim to the Lordship of the Barrowlands?"

 

She replied simply, "From my mother, Alys Dustin, sister to the late Lord Willam Dustin."

 

Robb was stunned. Where has she been the past few days?! Why had he been bothered to deal with such distant Dustin relations when a strong viable candidate such as herself remained? There had to be something more to her story. Robb then recalled that she did press this claim for herself, and not in the name of her younger brothers.

 

"Why do you so claim this right before your brothers? The North may be different from the rest of Westeros, but we are not Dorne."

 

She replied with a tinge of bitterness to her voice, "Because, my lord, my younger brothers are but my half-brothers. Oh, I love them very dearly, but they share not the same mother as myself and my elder brother Roderick did. My mother died as she gave me life. My lady mother did marry my poor dreamer of a father for love, you see--her father disowned her for it, and on top of which there is the ancient vow the Starks have against Barrowstarks... which is why I know my claim to be the least of your concern, your lordship. But if it were at all possible to consider it e'en a little bit, it would make living at Southgate all the more bearable."

 

"The ancient vow?" asked Robb. This was something he did not recall Maester Luwin mentioning in his history of the North.

 

She elucidated immediately, "That no Barrowstark should e'er again hold title or land. The old Stark Kings proclaimed that it was to be the lot of my family for perpetuity for our... disloyalty. We were left with naught but our name, and that is the only thing beyond our words which has seen my family through."

 

Robb thought the idea of holding to the words of a long dead Stark King on this matter absurd--especially when her promotion would solve this issue definitively once and for all, and would keep the title and lands off the grummy hand of a shady man such as Lord Stout. But he wondered at the mention of her elder brother, "Where is your older brother?"

 

Lyanna seemed to soften at the mention of him, and Robb thought she almost would begin to cry and immediately regretted the question, but before he had a chance to take back what had already been said, she replied, "Roderick was in service to the late Lady Dustin. He was squiring with a barrowknight in Barrow Hall hoping to earn Lady Dustin's approval so she might ask your father to o'erlook his family name so he could be named her heir, and... I am afraid he ne'er returned to Southgate after the Ironborn came..."

 

Robb recalled briefly moving through the barracks of Barrow Hall, where all the squires slept, and supposed one of their maggot infested bodies to have been yet another distant cousin, and felt a bit of rage inflame him.

 

"And your father and stepmother?"

 

"Dead, your lordship."

 

It was just then that Brandon Tallhart, who was recovering faster than himself, which caused Robb to feel a little envious of, begged leave to enter to deliver a letter which had just arrived from Winterfell. Skipping o'er most of his mother's long letter which he would read in private later, he scanned until he found the section in which his mother gave him advice that it mattered not how well related the new Lord or Lady of the Barrowlands be to the Dustin family, simply that they would have enough men to hold and defend the countryside.

 

If it was simply a matter of men, well that was already to be provided for by Brandon, as he was to keep his Tallhart forces here in the town until a force could be raised by the future Lord or Lady of the Barrowlands, and he was already seeing to the smaller issues that the Lord or Lady of the Barrowlands would have done. The only issue that kept him from being Lord of the Barrowlands himself was that he had no claim of Dustin blood. Lyanna Barrowstark clearly had the best claim to the title, even if she did not think it likely she would be considered. She was not powerful enough on her own to hold the lordship as she had no men sworn to her as of yet... but together they might...

 

_Their house colors are not so dissimilar either--it is like they are already married._

 

He then noticed that both Lyanna and Brandon were seemingly attempting to make their excuses so as to leave him privacy to read his letter, but with a call of both their names he did put a stop to their flight. "Do stay cousin and Brandon, I would wish to speak with you both concerning your plans for the future..."


	34. Brynden

**BRYNDEN**

 

He had received the King’s letter requesting him to come to the capital to take up the position of Hand of the King with surprise. He knew it would bring an honor to him and his family as well as give himself an opportunity to show his obstinate brother just what his choices in life had reaped him. Not every man need marry to bring honor and respect to one’s family.

 

Upon arrival in King's Landing, Brynden Tully had immediately gone to the Red Keep before gathering any further information. It was a decision he now regretted kneeling before the Iron Throne of Westeros where the self-proclaimed Queen Regent, dressed all in black, now sat in lieu of her absent son, Prince Tommen. Prince Joffrey having since been an unfortunate victim of his father’s madness and warhammer. A whole host of Lannister guards and gold cloaks surrounded the throne room in an unsettling manner, ready to move at the merest flicker of the Queen’s hand. No one was allowed into the throne room beyond one person at a time, with the doors shut tightly after they were permitted entry, and upon sight of the Queen, he could hardly blame her for these added securities. His arrival in the Crownlands had greeted him with wild smallfolk rumors that the King’s Targaryeon ancestry had finally shown its face in his own form of madness--rumors he’d discounted as idle gossip equal to the one he had heard of himself once where he supposedly had a lover in the Vale for whom he would not marry due to her being so low born. The smallfolk did love to weave a good tale about high lords, of that he was certain, so he had discounted the rumors about the King upon hearing them. However the evidence of the truth behind the tale was plain to see for Brynden’s eyes as the Queen Cersei’s scared and swollen face convinced him of the King’s madness far more than all the idle gossip ever had. Her face was nearly beyond recognition, completely with half her face a putrid blackish purple color, with some wounds oozing a bit of puss from half-healed scars. Brynden felt much pity for the woman.

 

The Queen spoke slowly, as though speaking were somewhat painful to do, but she spoke with the pride of her natal house, “Ser Brynden, we are sad to report that your services will no longer be required. The Prince’s small council has selected our Father, Lord Lannister to serve the Prince. Your willingness to faithfully serve the Prince has been noted and we hope that the rest of your family proves as loyal, honorable, and dutiful as yourself.”

 

Brynden bristled at the backhanded slight to his family, but he held his tongue. With so many soldiers present, now was not the moment to defend his family. In all accounts, Brynden considered himself lucky. After all, the likelihood was that he had been offered the position by the King in a fit of madness--why else would he dismiss Jon Arryn, not to mention legitimize that bastard boy of his goodnephew?--he simply hoped that word of his reasons for coming to King’s Landing could be kept a secret, less Hoster hear of it and never let him live it down.

 

He responded politely, wishing to be done with the matter and on his way, “I understand your grace and wish your Lord father the best with the position.”

 

The Queen was dismissive of his well-wishes, saying, “He has served faithfully as Hand before. He shall no doubt do so again.”

 

Brynden let the comment that was on his tongue-- _that_ _he had served one madman well enough, now he might see fit to serve another_ \--stay in his thoughts rather than slip out. He felt he was just about to be dismissed when he heard the throne room’s doors burst open and an announcer proclaim Lord Tyrion Lannister, recently come from Casterly Rock to be present. The dwarf entered the throne room proudly, waddling as though he were the first of men. However his procession came to a halt when his eyes fell upon his sister. Whom with the opening of the doors attempted to hide her face from view from the public that waited beyond. Half of Brynden wished to be as far away as possible from the Queen and her guards, but at the same time he felt drawn the promise of witnessing the confrontation between the two siblings whom the whole of Westeros knew held little love for each other. Hell, he hadn’t been dismissed yet, he could linger a little longer, and besides the doors had shut behind the Imp and guards returned to standing in front of them.

 

“Seven hells!” proclaimed the Imp.

 

“What are you doing here?” spat the Queen

 

“Our father sent me to be Hand in his stead, since he is busy dealing with the fall out from Lannisport,” said the Imp rather casually.

 

The Queen exclaimed, “Toy words with me—us not! What do you mean?”

 

“Haven’t you heard? My dear, _pretty_ sister. It appears that blood vengeance reaps little reward for reavers. They’ve all but withdrawn their attack of the North and have instead begun to focus on the Western coast from Seaguard to Crakehall, and you know how well our father trusts our uncle the admiral ever since the last Greyjoy Rebellion.”

 

“What of Lannisport?” asked the Queen.

 

At this the Imp grew silent before speaking, “They sent three fire ships into the harbor to destroy our fleet. Well, they burned most of it and taking half the city with them. What news have you of the Royal fleet? Redwyne alone can’t face this fleet, it would lead to a stalemate at best.”

 

The Queen was silent, obviously in shock. Brynden knew that it was likely Seaguard was blockaded, but not taken due to the forces the King had commanded to meet there after news of the Greyjoy boy’s death had reached him. That meant that Walder Frey was likely making a pretty penny off of being the only easy supply line to those forces… _the Others take the man_.

 

He offered, “Your grace, with your dismissal, I would like to attend to the force at Seaguard to see if whatever fleet Lord Mallister has can be used to provide a distraction before Lord Stannis can arrive with the Royal fleet.”

 

The Queen looked surprised before saying, “Haven’t you heard Ser Tully? Lord Stannis is a murderous traitor, who along with Lord Renly did egg on the King to slay his son and heir and give these... small wounds we have endured.”

 

That did not sound right… Lord Stannis was an honorable man. He did not know Lord Renly that well, but of Stannis he knew the man’s character to be near impeccable. There was something that the lion queen wasn’t saying...

 

“What did Jaime do?” asked the Imp

 

“Not now, _little brother_.” a term otherwise of endearment came out like a vicious slander from the Queen’s lips.

 

Just then a messenger from one of the city’s watchtowers arrived and made his way before the throne to announce, “Your grace, it is my duty to report that a large army has been spotted approaching the city.”

 

“An army?!” exclaimed the Queen

 

“Aye, from the King’s Wood.” replied the messenger.

 

“That is likely the Stormlords come to _witness_ the trials of the Lords Baratheon,” scoffed the Imp.

 

Brynden knew that he had likely lingered too long and so quietly began to back away towards the doors, but just as he was about to do so, several guards surrounded him, their weapons drawn.

 

“Ser Tully, we did not dismiss you yet. We have yet need of you and your family’s _loyalty_.”


	35. Wolf I

**WOLF**  
  
She had been running for many suns and moons. Her paws ached, but she needed to press on. Over hills full of white woolly prey did she pass. They bleated as he did pass--part of him wished to be diverted with the thrill of the chase and kill of these creatures. It wouldn’t take too long, but no, she must press on. The alpha of the man pack needed her. Sometimes he was with her her in a way she had never known possible, but then he wasn’t. It was from the last time they had shared thoughts together that she did know he was in need of her, and so she left her little pack with the alpha man’s pack--they would look after each other, for they were but one and the same in a way that she was coming to see herself and the alpha man.   
He at first did not like thinking the same thoughts, but the more it did happen the more he seemed to embrace it, as did she. Soon it felt natural--as though it had always been this way between them and always would.  
  
After a few suns had passed she did come to some chase of her own as angry men--farmers, the shepherds the alpha man had thought to her--with long claws--pitchforks--they could throw chased her away. She did avoid the white woolly prey from then on, which only added to the journey. More suns came and went until at long last he saw the endless salty water before him. Wet and clunky earth that was fine and gritty did irritate her paws and cling to them. Sand was what the alpha man had thought it, the word meant much and little to her all at once. She was close to the alpha man, she knew it. He was with another man--a lone wolf--and they were near the sand and the endless salty water. They had been here a while traveling along the sand to find where they were, but she would find them.  
  
Each night she did feel the alpha and her join as one more and more, the closer they got. He had slowed his and the man’s progress so that she might join them. And when they joined she knew by which rocks that he had passed or slept by.   
  
That is until this night when he did not come. She knew he was not far, but yet he did not come. This worried her, and so she sped up her pace.   
  
She knew she had come to the place that he and the other man had stopped when she saw the small fire he had built--she could smell him and the other man unlike she had ne’er before--but both men were not there. She continued to sniff to try and find where he had gone and why he left the fire unattended--and then she heard men at a distance. Her eyes trained on where she heard the clamor and she saw a small group of men meeting with the alpha man. At first she thought that they had ta’en him, and so she did pursue--but as she did approach she saw that amongst this men was a she-man who greeted the alpha man as a man pack member should. She then did stop and watch as the she-man rose from kneeling before the alpha man. It was then one of the she-man’s pack did point to her and all eyes fell upon her. At once she thought she might have to face the men and their long claws--that was until the alpha man did put a stop to them and then joined her for a moment and told her to come. She approached slowly, not trusting the she-man and her smaller pack that was part of the alpha man’s pack, but she did come.  
  
The she-man did ask, “Lord Stark, is that...?”  
  
The alpha man did come and stand next to her, which was only natural, as he said, “Aye, Lady Lyessa, this is my wolf.”


	36. Cersei I

**CERSEI**

 

She was going to kill Tyrion for this. She should not be seen like this--people stared at her with… pity. She didn’t need anyone’s pity! She was a lioness! Proud, triumphant she should be… but with Jaime’s breaths so shallow and wheezy, her roar had left her.

 

_He had said, “Had you been born with a cock between your legs, you could have lead, sweet sister.”_

 

How she wished she’d been born a man. She would’ve gelded the Imp long ago and drowned him in a barrel of wine.

 

_And he had continued, “But luckily for us you’re a wronged woman, battered wife, and grieving mother. Use those things to our advantage.”_

 

And so she was walking out to meet the Stormlords, led by elderly Lord Eldon Estermont. She walked barefoot from the gates of the city, dressed in her widow’s weeds, without any makeup, at the head of a cart in which lay the coffin of her dear beloved Joffrey, which Tyrion had ensured was dressed in Baratheon black and gold.

 

_“You’re the one who chose this role. You, dear sister, not me. I am merely helping you to bring it to its complete realization.” He had said._

 

The procession was not heavily guarded, for she was a Queen coming to meet with her people who had come to her aide. And when she approached, she saw the affect of her appearance on the few stormlords that had gathered at the sight of her. Lord Estermont especially seemed to be unable to take his eyes off her bruised and swollen face, made all the more offensive since Tyrion had insisted she not seek further treatment for the two days it had taken for the army to settle outside their gates. After walking the muddy mile to the encampment she then climbed to the cart to speak.

 

Calling their attention, she did begin, “Bannermen! Lords! Brothers by marriage if not blood, I come to you today not only as a Queen and wife to our most beloved monarch but also as a mother and woman most grievously wronged.”

 

She then pulled open the coffin and was shocked at how Tyrion had arranged her son, her beloved son. Clad in Baratheon black and gold he was, but his wounded chest was left open and bare for all to see the bloodied mess that had been her son in his final moments. The blood was now dried and his skin pale--making his hair appear darker. She gasped at the sight of him again, her memory of him protecting her from Robert’s wrath in the end having cost them both so much. With tears in her eyes, and emotion in her voice she continued.

 

“You see before you the body of our most beloved Prince--a young and worthy fawn who had just begun to grown his antlers and show his Baratheon fury. He was the White Hart, come to lead the House of Baratheon to glory and renown through his reign. Orys Baratheon come again! Now… he is unjustly cut down before his time.”

 

She then knelt down and cradled the body of her son, pulling him out of the coffin for the whole army to see. She heard a few gasps.

 

She called out, “He was an innocent, whose spilled blood cries out for vengeance to those who’ve struck him down. Hear you not its cry? Would that I were a man to answer it! But being a woman, I have only the right to grieve and bare the injustices done to House Baratheon, my adopted House. I may have been born a proud lioness, in this moment I know I have the heart and stomach of a furious stag, as you do my brothers!”

 

At this a few quiet ayes rose out amongst the lower ranks, old men, and green boys. She would need to draw upon more than this to prove her cause.

 

She continued, “So it is to you, my great loyal brothers, I do beg, as a mother, for justice. Justice for our young stag!”

 

The old heir of Greenstone did reply at this, “And justice you shall receive my lady for the true murderers of our fair prince. Which truly aren’t honorable men like Lords Renly and Stannis.”

 

“I most graciously thank you, my lord, but do you not know that you do further wrong to our prince by this call? You say that Lords Renly and Stannis are honorable men. And from knowing them both I do agree that they are both honorable men. And yet here our tragic Prince lays. Dead at their honorable words. Do you not recognize his wounds? What else can they be from but a war hammer? And whom else could swing such a weapon but his father? Aye, but what would drive to make the father murder his own beloved fawn? Why honorable words from honorable men! This be but the honorable end to honorable words! I demand justice my lords for his most honorable death, or else you do but kill our young stag again! I beseech you to avenge this killing!”

 

Not all—seven hells, not even half—the assembled lords and men cried out after her call, but then she needed not the whole army, just enough to question their orders and bring dissension to the ranks and of that, Cersei felt certain she had succeeded.


	37. Sansa III

**SANSA**  
  
Upon finally hearing from her mother word of the death of Joffrey, Sansa felt as though a tremendous weight had been lifted off her. There was no danger now of any betrothal to that monster--ever! She was free… free! And after the joy and many delights this realization had brought her had passed she then turned her thoughts to contemplating exactly how he had died. At his supposed father’s hand… such a charge as kinslayer now rested on the King, saved only with the claim that he as well had gone as mad as the last King. Things were wildly diverging from what had been and that both thrilled her and scared her. What if this new future was worse than the old one? Thus far it seemed rather safe for her and her family, but every little choice she now saw had its consequences.  
  
When word arrived of Robb’s sudden rediscovery of the Barrowstarks and his choice in suggesting Lyanna Barrowstark as heir to Barbrey Dustin, Sansa felt her brother might be making a mistake. She knew the history of the Barrowstarks well enough, far better she imagined than Robb did, obviously. The Barrowstarks, along with the Greystarks, had supported the Boltons in their grab for power, becoming kinslayers in the process as they had murdered their Stark kin. Sansa wondered if this might be a move to begin the process of regaining what they had lost by outwitting her simple, naive, trusting brother. So she set her mind upon that news of writing to her brother on the subject, asking him to instead find a better person for the Lordship of the Barrowlands. Someone with better relations with their family history.  
  
However when her mother read further on that to help secure the lands this Lyanna Barrowstark was to become betrothed to Brandon Tallhart, Sansa knew she had to go to Barrowton immediately. If for no other reason than to delay this betrothal until father might be found. She did not wish to see history repeated herself with the Barrowstarks rising once again under the name of a Tallhart branch to stab the Stark family in the back like they had good King Domrik. That’s at least the reason she told herself why she was going to Barrowton. Along the journey she was accompanied by Cley for “protection”. Reports stated that all of the Ironborn had long since retreated to the Saltspear and Blazewater Bay--with further rumors that more and more ships were on the move.  
  
The town was obviously damaged but held a sort of quaint market town nature quality to it. The houses were square and sturdy little things of wood and stone, seeming to pop out of the ground like a field of mushrooms. The most spectacular building before her was the Town Hall--a three towered structure which loomed over the central square which doubled as a marketplace, the tallest tower containing a clock which chimed as they crossed the square. Her brother's encampment was outside the fortified town, so they continued their journey. Along the way she thought she saw Cley engage in a brief conversation with a pretty young girl, but she paid no mind to it. Nor did she seem particularly upset when her "protection" drifted off in the direction of a nearby tavern. They had been at each other's throats the entire trip--her upset about a particularly nasty prank back at Winterfell of drenching poor young Robert in red syrup while he slept, so that when he awoke he found himself stuck to his bed. The experience had so troubled her poor young cousin that he had gone completely into a shaking fit.  
  
Cley had thought they were all over reacting and that the boy couldn't handle a good joke. So Sansa did not mind his drifting off in Barrowton in the least.  
  
Upon arrival in the battered town she found not only that Brandon and Lyanna were to be officially proclaimed as betrothed before the town hall in a few days’ time. She also heard rumor that her brother was near ready to depart the town for some military tactic he had concocted. Apparently the Ironborn had retreated from their offensive to raiding the coast along Blazewater Bay and the Saltspear--and he wanted to draw them into a trap of his own he was to set along the Blazewater River. Sansa knowing of his victories and military stratagems from the frequent beatings she had received in the other future decided that in this matter Robb knew best. She would however challenge Robb’s choice on awarding the Lordship of the Barrowlands as he did, which she intended to do privately in his own tent. As she approached the tent after Cley abandoned her to frequent the nearest tavern, a guard was sent in to notify her brother as to her arrival.  
  
As the guard came back out she heard Robb say from inside the tent, “Lord Ryswell, I would love to continue speaking on this issue with you, but I am afraid I must greet my sister who has only just arrived. Would you care to join me in doing so?”  
  
Out came her brother, dressed in his stark colors, with added bandages and wraps around his wounds. Lord Ryswell meanwhile was a tall and lean man, with long brown hair heavily streaked with gray tied back as a horse's tail would look. Despite his age appeared to be quite fit.  
  
"Sansa, what are you doing here?" Robb greeted her in a near rhetorical manner that struck her as false.  
  
Sansa gave her best performance of a happy girl, not for her brother' s benefit, but for Lord Ryswell. "Dear Robb, I have come to meet this new cousin you've discovered."  
  
Sansa knew by the way he spoke what came next, he was rather pointedly attempting to get rid of Lord Ryswell. "Of course you have. Come in, surely you must have news of Winterfell."  
  
After he had settled her into the tent he finally confided his real thoughts to her, "I have to leave this town. The Ironborn are still raiding around Blazewater and the Saltspear, and here I am stuck here arguing about inheritance!"  
  
All this while he had not sat down, and Sansa saw that the wrapped ankle seemed to pain him so as he leaned more heavily on his cane to compensate. So she told him, "You have to heal. If you rest not, that ankle will never heal right, and then you truly would never be able to lead men in battle the same again."  
  
After she forced him to sit down with his leg propped up he then asked, "Any word on father?"  
  
She readily replied, "Not when I left."  
  
"Gods, I'd hoped that when you came that you'd have found him and brought him. Lord Ryswell is no horse... he's as stubborn as a mule," scoffed Robb  
  
"This is as much about being a lord, Robb, as leading men in battle. You have to know how to deal with your sworn lords. What be his claim?  
  
Robb rubbed his hands on his face, clearly trying to wipe away the memory of the discussion he had had with the stern looking lord she had seen earlier, "That father left his daughter Barbrey rule the Barrowlands in her own name, effectively beginning a new descent of lordship--meaning that it would pass to her heirs, not a distant Dustin relation. And he's his daughter's heir."  
  
She knew immediately what the issue was, "Lord Ryswell wants Barrowton--it's the most populated town in our Western holdings, and the one that sees the most trade with Seaguard, Lannisport, and the Reach. He'd be a fool not to try to claim it anyway he can."  
  
"I have been having some men check the Town Hall's ledgers. Hopefully something will come of them that'll put this matter to rest."  
  
"I imagine most of those records are concerning all the food supplies they have to keep," tutted Sansa.  
  
At this Robb sighed and said, "No, Barrow Hall was the one which served as the gathering point for the winter's supplies."  
  
And hearing that, that's when Sansa knew how exactly to approach the problem--if he wanted Lord Ryswell off his back. But Sansa was unsure if she wanted to mention it if that would only give him an excuse to continue with the Barrowstarks inheriting. Just then Brandon Tallhart entered the tent, he was stopped for a moment to see Sansa there, but then gained control once again of himself and turned to Robb.  
  
Brandon gave a fleeting look to Sansa as he acknowledged her presence, before o'erlooking her for the rest of his announcement., "My lord... my lady... I've brought the town clerk. He would like to speak with you based upon your inquiries upon the town records."  
  
"At last, some answers!" exclaimed Robb.  
  
The clerk, Norwyn Fields, was a tiny man, one could almost call him a dwarf, except he was completely proportional. He had something of the field mouse about his looks and behaviors, nervously fretting over the smallest of details in everything he read.  
  
As it turned out, from the Town Hall's records, Lyanna Barrowstark it seemed had told the truth of her descent. The town records concerning marriage showed that Alys Dustin had indeed married Ronnel Barrowstark. Subsequent ledgers concerning births recorded that Ronnel and Alys had indeed given birth to Roderick and Lyanna, as well as another infant sister in between, who had apparently died young for she showed up in no other records beyond internment in the lichfield. A subsequent marriage to Branwyn Mollen had produced two sons named Marq and Osric, who seemed to be about Bran's age. Branwyn's records stopped with a ledger recording her own internment in the lichfields.  
  
However the news that no copy of Lady Dustin's last will had been kept with the mouse clerk troubled Robb more than the confirmation of Lyanna's story. After Norwyn had left, Sansa finally had to admit, "You know, her being who she says she is only makes matters worse."  
  
"What do you mean?" asked Robb.  
  
Sansa wondered if he could be so blind, "She's aiming for power... and this lordship is her first stepping stone."  
  
Robb scoffed before saying, "Sansa, you haven't even met her yet."  
  
"I don't have to have met her to know this."  
  
"Why not?"  
  
 _Had he forgotten already?_  
  
Sansa took a breath before saying as she exhaled, "Because, I was in her place in the other future, or don't you recall? After a while all I could think about after we'd lost the North, was how I could get it back... how I could return... Mark my words, Robb, she's thinking the exact same things."  
  
"But the Barrowstarks lost all claims to the Barrowlands thousands of years ago. I have no doubt that long ago they held such ambitions, but them building Southgate and involving themselves as sellswords or in trade does not bespeak of higher ambitions... at least not for the past few generations."  
  
Sansa could see that he was actually better informed than she thought he would have been.  
  
"She'll use Brandon as a stepping stone to more power."  
  
It was then that Robb gave Sansa a look as though he finally understood something he hadn't before--though what that was she couldn't tell, until he finally said, "I think you need to talk to Brandon."  
  
Sansa cautiously admitted, "I was going to eventually. But I--"  
  
"No _now_ , my dear _lovestruck_ sister."

_Lovestruck?! Brandon? What did Robb take her for!_

She felt as though she had to correct him, "Robb, I came here for the benefit and security of our house--not because of Brandon."  
  
"Of course." answered Robb with an infuriating grin  
  
She felt incensed at the fact that he didn't take her concerns seriously, and so she snapped "I am being quite serious! The last thing I want to see is you make some political blunder that gets us all killed at somebody's wedding."  
  
Robb took great offense at her suggestion. She and Arya had told them all that they had known of the Red Wedding that they could have pieced together without having been there. There was clearly no other thing that she could be referring to, and Robb knew it. Sansa wished for anything to have taken back those words right then--even if she did think them to be true, Robb did not deserve to hear them.  
  
He asked as though attempting to hold back his building anger, "So mistakes I've made in a future that's unlikely to ever happen now, I'm supposed to be held accounted for now?"  
  
Sansa knew not what to say to this immediately. She was still rather shocked that she had even said it aloud. So he continued, seeming more enraged by her silence, "What of your own mistakes in this other time?"  
  
She began, "Robb--"  
  
Yet he interrupted her, and pointedly added, "No. I think you would not want to speak with me with me. I might just say something that would get us all killed."  
  
Sansa left the tent not long after in a huff. The argument had further descended into an exchange that had resembled her fights with Arya than anything she had had with Robb. After such an exchange, her mouth quenched for the tart taste of some wine, and before she knew it she had found herself outside one of the few taverns outside of town walls. Being a bastard in the Eyrie had afforded her only a few privileges--easier access to drink than her father had permitted under his roof having been one of the few. She drew up her hood so as to not be known immediately, settled herself at a small table and ordered some wine, not caring that no one she knew was not with her. The serving woman gave her an odd look but dismissed it when she found Sansa to be a more than generous patron in her payment.  
  
In what felt like several minutes later Sansa was joined in the tavern after she had secured half a flagon for herself by a well-bandaged half a head--and that was when Sansa realized that somehow Brandon had found her. He was dressed in a simple tunic with the Tallhart trees upon it, leather jerkin and boots, and breeches. All of which were shades of the Tallhart green and brown.  
  
Without asking for permission he joined her with a glass of his own, and asked, "What did he say to you?  
  
"Didn't he tell you?" asked Sansa as she drained the remainder of her glass. If he wanted to play the questions game she could play right back along.  
  
"Truly, Sansa what happened?" asked Brandon. He seemed genuine in his curiosity to know.  
  
"We argued, like all siblings do." she said, hoping that keeping it simple would be better for her. She called for more wine and bread at that moment. This was their first time alone in each other's presence since they'd argued in Winterfell's godswood. Though she guessed that with increasingly finding other guests appearing at other tables, they weren't truly alone.  
  
Sansa took advantage of the silence that fell between them for the moment to truly get a look at Brandon. The upper portion of the right side of his face was still wrapped in cloths from the burns he'd sustained in retaking Barrow Hall. And Sansa for a brief moment wondered if he would grow to look more like the Hound had when she had known the man in the other time.  
  
She broke the silence which had consumed them until this moment by complimenting him on his reported battle prowess and bravery. He cut right through her words and asked, "Why did you come here?" He seemed to have become more sharp with his manner of address.  
  
"I needed a drink," was Sansa's response as the serving woman brought a loaf of bread and a new flagon of wine. Sansa paid immediately and tipped her well. She then broke off a piece of bread and handed half of the chunk she had broken off to Brandon and together they did dip the bread in their own wine to eat. The sweet soggy bread trickling down her throat.  
  
"Alone?" asked Brandon once the woman had left.  
  
"Why not? Is not the North safe for a daughter of Winterfell?" she asked almost rhetorically.  
  
He explained further, "There still lurk Ironborn about--sabotaging what they can. Not to mention others who might use a disruption to a town such as the loss of a Lordship as an excuse to do... well, anything."  
  
"Concerned for my well-being, Brandon? Well, at least someone on this trip seems to care." She should have brought Lady, then she would have felt safer--but the last time she'd taken Lady on a trip about this age... no, best not to chance the Gods a second time on that.  
  
Brandon then sighed and said, "Your brother asked me to find you."  
  
"Did he?" and once again a silence fell between them.  
  
It probably was the amount of wine she had drunk by this point, but she did not care. She couldn't stop herself as the first question--the hidden question--came bursting forward."Why do you want to be betrothed to Lyanna?"  
  
He answer avoided answering anything. "Considering she's to be the Lady of the Barrowlands, I thought that would be rather obvious."  
  
"So it's entirely for her expected lands and titles?" asked Sansa.  
  
"No.... not completely," was his ambiguous answer.  
  
Sansa questioned, "Then why else?"  
  
He did not say anything much further to her question, instead at long last taking his second sip of wine.  
  
So she asked another question, "Do you think she'll make you happy?"  
  
He gruffly replied, "I think you're overstepping your boundaries, Lady Sansa."  
  
Sansa insisted, "I ask not but for your concern."  
  
"What do you care what I do with my life?" asked Brandon bitterly.  
  
Sansa couldn't help herself, perhaps it was the wine speaking, "I would rather not see you chained in marriage to someone you didn't really want."  
  
There was a brief pause before he replied, "So now you notice?"  
  
Sansa did not know what to say this this response.  
  
He sighed before saying, "It's too late, Sansa, you've made your choice. Now you have to live with it."  
  
"What?"  
  
He spoke to her in less evasive words, "You and Cley are betrothed."  
  
"No we're not," countered Sansa  
  
"Is that so? Then why is he in town spreading the news around about how you're not only betrothed, but that you also..." his conviction seemed to fail him as he did realize what he was about to say.  
  
She should have been angry and stamping on the ground, but all she could think of for the moment to respond with was the insipid, "You were with Cley?"  
  
He seemed to become rather incensed by the suggestion, but merely quietly said, "I was meeting with Lyanna, and he started to make a fool of himself for the entire tavern to see, like usual."  
  
Sansa disliked at how casually he referred to the possible new Lady of Barrowton.  
  
"Well, it isn't true, but then again nearly nothing he says seems to be either," replied Sansa more than a tad bitterly.  
  
He seemed to give her a kindly look at this response, which she told herself that she did not desire, but she still felt grateful for nonetheless. However before she could loosen her tongue on the subject, a guard dressed in the Tallhart colors approached him.  
  
"My lord, Lord Stark requests your immediate presence in his tent. It concerns the Lady Barrowstark."  
  
Brandon told him to give the message to Robb that he was on his way, and then he stood and held out his hand to help Sansa to her feet, saying, "Come, I'm not leaving you here to drink alone."  
  
After downing the last of her wine, Sansa contented herself to taking the rest of the loaf with her. She took his hand to rise and found she most surely needed it.  
  
When they had returned to Robb's tent Sansa had found that it was far later than she suspected as the evening hours had since fallen upon the outskirts of the town--casting everything in the eerie glow of twilight. On the periphery of her vision she could swear she saw shadows move that shouldn't have.  
  
Robb's tent thankfully was better lit, though not by much. She was dizzy from the walk and was given a chair to gather herself in.  
  
"Gods! I told you to find her, not get her in her cups!" scolded Robb when they had settled her.  
  
"Let it go, Robb. I'm the one who drank as much as I did. It's not like you haven't done the same--and in the First Keep no less!"  
  
Robb seemed to simultaneously blush and pale--which was quite a sight to see.  
  
It was then that a sob was heard from across the tent, and Sansa turned to see what looked like Brandon comforting a crying Arya! But Arya had not come with her... and she was far too old to be Arya. Then this must be Lyanna.  
  
Brandon asked, "What's happened?"  
  
"My brothers... they're gone!" sobbed Arya's twin.  
  
"Gone?" asked Brandon.  
  
"After we spoke, I returned to Southgate to find them missing."  
  
"Mayhaps they had gone a wandering?" asked Sansa, thinking of how Rickon and Bran would disappear when it suited them.  
  
At this suggestion Lyanna shook her head and said, "Osric might have, but not Marq. Marq does not like to be far from Southgate. I have to drag him to get him to go anywhere!" and she bitterly laughed.  
  
"Mayhaps Osric did so to his younger brother?" Sansa suggested, making assumptions which were quickly dismissed as it proved that Marq was the elder, not the reverse.  
  
Lyanna despairingly said, "I've checked everywhere they would have gone...the lichfield, the Town Hall, the market, even the Great Weirwood--but they were no where."  
  
"Be calm my lady, I shall find your brothers," Brandon said in a manner that made Sansa recall the childhood games of Lady and Knight they had played at. He was being her Knight, and he would rescue her missing brothers. Lyanna smiled through her tears and wished him luck--playing the role of the Lady to a degree which shocked Sansa how much it suited her. Seeing him pledge as such, them both dressed in brown and green, Sansa did see them as though they were already married and a chill went down her spine at the thought. It was then that Brandon departed. This left Sansa, Robb, and the still crying Lyanna alone together. Robb it seemed was still slightly sour, as the tentative attempt she made at trying to mend their disagreement was put off until she'd recovered her wits, and he left the tent with the excuse of needing to speak with Cley's father about the counteroffensive he was planning against the Ironborn, and left.  
  
"How old are your brothers?" asked Sansa, not feeling like she could find as easy an excuse to flee the tent so soon after Robb had, and also feeling it improper to do so while Lyanna was still troubled.  
  
"Marq will be eight soon, and Osric just turned six."  
  
"They're not much older than mine and Robb's younger brothers."  
  
Lyanna suddenly realized and reacted, "Oh... excuse me my Lady, but I did not--I mean I can see you are Lord Robb's sister, you both have the same look about you, but I forgot--"  
  
Sansa saw the girl trip over her apology to her offense to proper etiquette, and Sansa knew at an instant that Lyanna, though she might share Arya's Stark features, was not alike her sister in any other manner. And as they conversed, Sansa found herself more and more coming to like Lyanna, though she still suspected that the girl was hiding some kind of secret.  
  
Conversation eased between the two of them as Sansa attempted to distract Lyanna by getting her to speak of her brothers, and not focus on the fact that they were missing.  
  
"Marq has been very quiet lately. He used to follow our elder brother, Roderick, around everywhere until he went to squire at Barrow Hall... said he wanted to be just like Roderick when he was older. I think he's taken his death the hardest of us all. After we moved back in to Southgate he wouldn't stop carrying a little wooden sword that Roderick made for him everywhere. He's become such a melancholic little boy now."  
  
"And how fares Osric since your brother's passing?" asked Sansa.  
  
Lyanna smiled a bit before saying, "Osric can fare anything. The Wall may fall, the Others turn us all to wights and the only time he'd notice anything had changed would be when his food was missing, the trees become too slick to climb, and the barrows too frozen to dig into."  
  
It was upon that last comment that Lyanna's eyes seemed to widen, as though having realized she'd said far too much, but before Sansa could contemplate what this meant her attention, a cloaked man with a burlap sack and a club entered the tent (not from the entrance but from sneaking under the sides), followed by two more fellow hooded compatriots. Sansa shouted for the guards to come, but only two did and were quickly knocked out by the clubs. Lyanna screamed as the man with the sack approached her, and Sansa dove for a dagger that her brother had haphazardly left on the table. As she did so however she felt something hard come down upon her head and Sansa rapidly lost consciousness.


	38. Clyffe II

**CLYFFE**  
  
When Clyffe awoke after having been knocked out in the confrontation he found himself to be in a dark rocking wooden room. The only source of light in the room coming from a square opening high above them left open, but with bars o'ertop it to prevent them from getting any smart ideas about escaping. From the dim light this opening provided, Clyffe estimated it was either near dawn or dusk when he awoke. His right cheek bothered him a tremendous deal and he put his hand to it to find that a scar--likely from the swords he'd faced had left its mark. He then stirred himself to look around his prison--his sore body aching at the movement. He saw that he was far from the only prisoner. He was captive with three others, who looked rather exhausted, an older man with white sideburns, and what appeared to be his two near-grown sons. They laid at the other end of the room near one another in seeming melancholic fits. At his stirring, the younger of the two   
"Ser Roderick, he's awoke!"  
  
And his three fellow prisoners at once crowded around him.  
  
"Where am I?" asked Clyffe.  
  
"On one of your father's ships, young Theon," said Ser Roderick.  
  
Clyffe at once felt confused and upset by this old man's assumption of knowing him or his family, "I have no father, and my name is Clyffe!"  
  
Then suddenly he recalled the fight on the beach and Nylla... Nylla fleeing!  
  
"Where's Nylla?" he asked, looking around as though expecting her to appear. If she wasn't here, had she made it to the town in time?  
  
"Clyffe?" asked the eldest boy.  
  
"I have no idea who you speak of. Forgive me, Clyffe, your face reminded me of someone I once knew, but now I see it's likely impossible," said the old man in a rather defeated tone.  
  
Troubled at the thought of not knowing Nylla's fate, and their lack in ability to answer his questions, he foolishly lashed out at the old man by saying, "I am sorry my face causes you grief, old man!"  
  
It was with a punch to his left cheek from the youngest boy, "You'll treat Ser Roderick with some respect!" growled the youngest as he shook his hand out after the punch.   
  
After recovering from the shock of the moment, Clyffe went to lunge after the younger boy, but the elder boy held him back as the old knight reprimanded the young boy, "Skae! Remember a knight's vow!"  
  
"Yes Ser." murmured Skae shamed facedly.  
  
As Clyffe rubbed his increasingly sore and swelling left cheek, the old knight came before him. "My apologies to the discourtesies of my squire, Clyffe," sighed Ser Roderick, looking rather defeated.  
  
Seeing the old man deflate from the stature he'd held a moment earlier, Clyffe was reminded that they were just as much victims of the likely Ironborn Realizing his foolishness at turning his anger and worry on not knowing Nylla's fate on the old knight, he apologized hesitatingly "I should not... have spoken as I did."  
  
The old knight looked at Clyffe and smiled before saying, "You are most certainly not the person I mistook you for. Mayhaps we let the misunderstandings of the past rest?"  
  
"Aye," agreed Clyffe and with a shake of hands all was forgotten.  
  
"So tell me, friends, how came you to be in this place?" asked Clyffe.  
  
"We were sent by our Lady to search for her son who had gone missing and likely been kidnapped by a crannogman. We were searching the swamps of the Neck and got lost ourselves and nearly died in attempting to find our way out. We were surely close to death when we at long last heard men and followed them to try and find our way out, but it turned out to our misfortune that the men were Ironborn, and we were captured and taken back to their ship, and then later transferred to this ship, for a reason I know not. And yourself, friend?"  
  
And Clyffe told him his story of how he had defended Nylla and their unborn child with all the heroics he could squeeze into the telling--bragging that he must have taken on at least ten Ironborn with his fists alone--but was knocked out in the process.  
  
"The similarity at times though can be uncanny..." murmured Ser Roderick in a voice he obviously thought was solely to himself.  
  
It was then that the sound of footsteps above approached the small opening that was their only access to the world around them. A small basket tied to a rope was sent down providing bread and limes, which apparently was to be their sole nourishment. This state of affairs continued for several days--during which Clyffe came to find his companions to be better company than he had hope for as they talked of the lord and lady they worked for: The Starks of Winterfell. They sounded almost as an ideal family the way Ser Roderick and Emrik spoke of them.  
  
Then one day the bars to the world above were lifted and a rope ladder lowered upon which two armed Ironborn came down and took Clyffe. He was then escorted to another part of the ship where he was pushed into another room--this one far cozier and better lit by actual windows. The room was obviously meant for the person in charge of the ship they were on.   
  
What surprised Clyffe most of all was that such a person, sitting before him at a table with a goblet of wine happened to be a woman. She was lean, long-legged, a thin face, short black hair, and a sharp nose. Upon her black leather bodice was a golden krakken. She was not dressed in dresses, but rather in black leather breeches. She seemed to look him over as though he were something she were considering purchasing, before she commanded him to sit down. She then took the nearby flagon of wine and refilled her goblet.  
  
As she did thus, she said one word, "Name."  
  
"Clyffe."  
  
The woman then rose and walked around the table and grabbed him by the chin, getting an even closer look. Her thumb pressing hard against the lower hen of his still swollen left cheek. "Yes, I can see how a certain likeness about the chin. They weren't wrong about that. But there's no mistaking that you're a greenlander through and through. You might have a touch of Iron blood in your veins, but many coast dwellers do." She spoke to him as though he knew what she were talking about. She, like Ser Roderick likely thought he resembled someone and now his curiosity was getting piqued.  
  
"Who's this man I am supposed to resemble so much to everyone?"  
  
"A dead one," was the woman's only reply as she let go of his chin and returned to her seat, sipping her wine all the while.  
  
"I should toss you overboard and let the Storm God or Drowned God fight for you. But you conveniently happen to resemble... him... enough that I'm moved to have some amount of mercy for you in... his memory."  
  
"What do you mean?" asked Clyffe.  
  
She sharply retorted with, "The only thing I need to know from you is if you want to live or die. You're too low to be a hostage of any worth..."  
  
Clyffe thought only but an instant, if there was but the smallest chance he could live and get away to find Nylla... he'd do it. So he said, "Live."  
  
"That settles that," she said with a smile.  
  
And Clyffe was set up from that day forward to be a deckhand.


	39. Gorkos

**GORKOS**  
  
 _Autumn winds are nigh',_  
 _Storms abound and sailors die._  
  
Gorkos had learned those words as a child on Skagos from his father who hunted seals, like his father had before him, like Gorkos now did, and like his newfound son would after him. Autumn was a time to stay home and wait for Winter when the storms would not be as frequent--though perhaps stronger.   
  
It was after an especially nasty storm, that he and his woman Marne had been blessed with the discovery . The gods had not been kind to them concerning children--their own trueborn children all either dying in the womb, or not long after leaving it. So to find a weak, plump, and frostbitten young boy with hair the color of wet straw washed up on the shore just outside their hut on Skagos, felt as though the gods had finally seen fit to bless him and Marne. The lad barely breathed and was pale to the bone when he'd found him--he had likely only lived due to the warmth his excess weight had provided him. From the fine silks he wore they knew he was a highborn Southron child. They replaced them with fine Northern furs and skins to warm his chilled body.  
  
Marne immediately took the boy into her heart as Gorkos knew she would. The only child that had lived beyond infancy before dying of a nasty cough had been about this boy's age. With gentle and tender care they looked after the boy for well over two weeks before feeling that he was like to live. From frostbite, the boy had lost two toes (one on each foot), his left ear, as well as his spearhand's smallest finger. There was also some significant scarring on his cheeks and across his nose from chilblains. But beyond these surface disfigurements the lad soon regained his strength and became easier to talk with.  
  
When the lad had first awoke he had been scared and confused by his surroundings, calling frantically for someone named Myrcella, before accepting that she wasn't coming and crying himself to sleep. Those first few nights Gorkos saw that Marne had felt absolutely helpless to soothe the child. Nothing from her would satisfy him. Slowly as the days turned to weeks, though, the boy came to see that he was safe and well taken care of here, and slowly began to let Marne into his heart. They discovered to their relief that the lad was sweet and kindly. When he began to feel quite comfortable with them, he began to ask about people and places that they had only rarely--if ever--heard about before. He asked about Lord Stark, a name which Gorkos recalled as a great king or ruler of the mainland shores, but with whom he'd had no interaction with ever in his life. He also spoke of . Most of all the child seemed concerned about them inquiring about his litter of pet cats--had any of them survived the sinking? Gorkos thanked his stars that such creatures had drowned--such a strange Southron custom to keep such wild beasts as Wildcats as pets!  
  
When the lad had recovered quite well enough to walk he asked if a boat might be procured to help him search for his sister, to whom the name of Myrcella belonged.  
  
Marne, ever so sweetly asked, "Don't you like it here, Tommick?"  
  
"Tommen." insisted the lad for the hundredth time--but he did not know Marne--once she'd settled on something she never budged. The boy gave a little harrumph before then saying, "And I like it here well enough, but I want to find my sister. If I survived she might as well."  
  
Gorkos sighed before replying, "I'm afraid with Autumn soon to set in, it's far too dangerous to set sail. You'd have to wait for one of those fancy ships that the mainlanders have." Marne shot him a dirty look for suggesting even the barest hope of a way off of Skagos.  
  
The boy picked up this hope and ran with it, eagerly asking, "When does the next mainlander ship come?"   
  
"Spring, likely, what with all the storms there are during Autumn and Winter," lied Marne. She wanted to keep the boy, and Gorkos could hardly blame her... and truth be told, with Marne and himself likely too old to have children, this would be their last chance to do so. And so Gorkos held his tongue on when the next mainlander ship would come--and let the lad Tommick's hopes of finding his sister fall asunder.  
  
The lad's complete fall into despondency after that deeply troubled Gorkos, almost to the point where he considered telling him the truth--but not quite to that point.  
  
The only thing that cheered him up was when Gorkos came home with two Wildcat younglings that he'd found by a dead she-cat and their larger litter mate. One was weak and sickly--the other healthy and strong, and Tommick took a liking to them immediately. And soon after that he began asking about leaving Skagos fewer and fewer times, seeming to enjoy his new life for the moment, and Gorkos let his worry and concerns about lying to the boy fade into nothing.


	40. Benjen II

**BENJEN**  
  
His brother with the cold hands after many days of journeying brought him to the wall about the point of the Nightfort, if Benjen had to make a guess. Most of these days were spent in silence, except for the discussion of dragonglass which had saved his life—he insisted on knowing what weapon could kill the Others, and that was the only point upon which his silent brother agreed to speak. Upon arrival at the Wall he was told by his cold handed brother to repeat his vow before the great weirwood doors if he wished to cross to the South.  
  
“I owe you a deep debt of gratitude, brother. Not just for saving my life, but also for telling me the secret to slaying Others. Tell me how I might even begin to repay it?”  
  
“Two ways. Return to Castle Black brother, continue your watch, and help them prepare for what is to come. The Night’s Watch has need of good strong men such as you, and simply living to serve it shall be payment enough in half.   
  
“And the other way?” asked Benjen, curious as to that task, for the first seemed rather easy to fulfill.  
  
His masked brother did pause for a moment before saying, “The other you will find the more difficult task, but it is the more important of the two.”  
  
His brother yet again paused, as if speaking he found were rather difficult to do.  
  
His brother with the coldhands then at long last said, “Upon reaching the other side of those doors, Benjen Stark, you shall come across a small party of people wishing to journey North of the Wall. You are to let them pass through the gate. They shall come with me and I shall look after them on this journey. Do not concern yourself with their matters. They are thought to be lost in the green lands of the South—let them remain lost. Simply allow them to pass through for they shall play an important role in the war that is to come—a war which the Night’s Watch shall come to know long before the rest of the Wall will and their early arrival will make all the difference in facing.”  
  
Benjen felt a chill run down his spine at the suggestion. Let people he was sworn to protect, north of his protection? How in good conscious could he call himself a brother of the Night’s Watch if he did that?  
  
As if detecting his hesitance and conflict, his cold handed brother then did ask of him, “Swear to me, brother that you shall keep to these two vows, and I shall consider any debt paid in full.”  
  
  
Benjen then reminded himself that these people—whoever they were—would be in safe but cold hands of his brother. He would look after them far better than he could with those dragonglass weapons. Which recalled to him that he had to return to Castle Black to tell them to research as much as they could about dragonglass—how to make it, and where to procure it.  
  
And so Benjen looked his masked brother in what he thought were his eyes and said solemnly, “I swear on my oath as a man of the Night’s Watch and as a brother descended from the Starks that first built the Wall that I shall keep my oaths which I do swear to you, brother.”  
  
“Then go…” was all that his brother could rattle as a reply.  
  
And Benjen did leave his brother sitting upon his elk. Why he did not come with him, he knew not and thought that he was like to rather not know. He approached the wall where he saw before him a deep cavernous opening. which he entered. The chasm was long and dark, but Benjen found the darkness of the wall to be rather comforting. He had never himself been beneath the wall so much that he could look up inside it—he did so and the sight at once terrified and struck him with awe. Within the ice Benjen could see swirling masses of black, gray, and white mists—or at least what appeared to be mists—moving through the ice as though it were mere air to them. And what startled Benjen the most about these mists was that some of them did notice his glance, and responded by crowding around the edge of the ice walls. Benjen felt himself being watched by these mists—though they held no eyes that he could see, and they certainly discomforted him. He quickened his pace from that moment forward and the mists did unfortunately follow.  
  
Eventually the passage began to dip down and Benjen came to a large white weirwood wooden face, carved solemnly before him. As he approached the eyes to the face did snap open and a bright blinding light emanated from them, which caused the mists within the wall to flee.   
  
Its wrinkled mouth then asked in an ancient deep sounding voice that echoed in the very Wall itself: “Who are you?”  
  
And Benjen, nervous, but oddly now finding comfort in the ancient door—as though its light had awoken something long dormant within his blood simply by being here before this gate. He replied with a confidence which grew by leaps and bounds the more he stood before the gate, feeling its awe inspiring might, with the part of his vow to the Night’s Watch that he had been commanded to give by his cold handed brother.  
  
After this, the gate did seem to whisper the response “Then pass”, as its mouth did seem to grow until it was the perfect size of a door for him to walk through. He did so and upon coming through to the other side Benjen immediately knew why his cold handed brother had said that this was to be the more difficult of vows to keep. Standing before him, at the bottom of what appeared to be a well, were Howland Reed, a boy who appeared to be his son, a silver and smokey gray direwolf pup, and his nephew Bran.  
  
“Nuncle!” exclaimed Bran and he did rush to him, jump so he could grab hold of his neck, and hug him, further adding in his ear the excited whisper of, “you’re alive!”, as though he had known the likelihood of his own demise as much as he had. And Benjen, still in shock of what all this meant could hear echoing in the back of his mind his brother’s words: _“The other you will find the more difficult task, but it is the more important of the two.”_  
  
 _The more important?_ How could he in good conscious give his family to the wilds beyond the Wall? _A man of the Night’s Watch does not have a family._ But how could he think that now, with Bran here before him? With Ned likely worried sick of his disappearance? _“Let them think them lost.”_ How could he worry Ned so?  
  
“It is a pleasure to see you again, old friend, though I wish the circumstances were… much different,” replied Howland. Howland then turned to his son and began introductions, “Benjen, may I introduce my son, Jojen. Jojen, this is my friend Benjen Stark… the pup.”  
  
Upon hearing the last words, Jojen immediately held out his hand in greeting “I am happy to meet with such a friend of my father’s. I am glad that it is you who here to help our family once again,” welcomed the young crannog boy with a rather eager smile. Benjen shook the boy’s hand with trepidation.  
  
“I—” but his words were caught in his throat. He wanted to say that he could not let them pass—they meant too much to him. How could he sacrifice them to the Others?  
  
Bran then whispered in his ear, “Nuncle, you must tell father about the Others. He’ll believe you. I fear he believed me not.”  
  
This further shocked Benjen, “You know?” Benjen managed to choke out. He wanted to ask more, how did he know about the Others? What did Ned know about his being here? But again, he seemed unable to properly speak.  
  
“Aye. Don’t worry though, Coldhands will keep us safe.” responded his young nephew.  
  
 _He knows of my cold handed brother waiting for them?!_ And yet again Benjen did hear his cold handed brother’s words ring in his ears, _“for they shall play an important role in the war that is to come…”_ And clearly they already knew what they were facing. And so, with much difficulty he did give his nephew one last hug, whispering the words “keep safe” in his own ears, and then placed him down and repeated the vow to the once again closed weirwood face and let them pass through the gate.  
  
Howland was the last to do so, speaking to Benjen briefly before passing, “Ben, I have a favor to ask of you. Look after my daughter Meera and see that she returns to Winterfell. She’ll be safe there.”  
  
“Where is she?” asked Benjen.  
  
“At the top of the well. There’s a rope over there to help you climb.”  
  
Benjen had been wondering how he would get out of the well. This promise was something he could tell truly concerned his friend and so he eagerly agreed and added himself, “Aye, I will, and Howland, promise me—”  
  
Howland interrupted him before he could finish, assuring him, “Bran will be safe in my care.”  
  
That wasn’t it alone. “And yourself, Howland.”  
  
Howland gave a smile before saying, “After the boys, I will. Farewell, my friend.”  
  
And he did pass through the gaping mouth, and it shut after him. Benjen briefly wondered if they truly would be all right before recalling his promise to Howland to see that his daughter to safety. And so he walked to where Howland had indicated the rope had been and began his long climb up. When he reached the top he found himself in an abandoned kitchen where two women—a wildling spearwife, tied up and despondent looking, while a girl nearly old enough to be a woman grown—who surely must have been Meera—guarded her with a pronged spear.  
  
“Are they through?” asked Meera.  
  
“Aye,” answered Benjen after pulling himself out of the well. He sat on its edge for a moment, catching his breath. Had he been a decade younger, that climb would have been far easier… he was beginning to feel old.  
  
She then demanded, “Will they be safe beyond the wall?”  
  
Benjen assured her, “Aye they will, a brother of the Night’s Watch waits for them on the other side.”  
  
And at this Meera seemed to become more at ease with the situation, though not completely, Benjen could tell—and he couldn’t blame the girl.  
  
“Who’s the wildling?” asked Benjen to Meera.  
  
“Who’s the crow?” retorted the spearwife with a stoic coldness before Meera could respond.  
  
Meera then answered his question, “Her name is Osha, and Bran made me promise to take her to Winterfell.”  
  
“Why Winterfell?” asked Benjen.  
  
“So I could be a prisoner and be force to kneel,” Osha bitterly added.  
  
Meera only said, “He said Rickon would know.”  
  
Just how omniscient had his family become since he left for the Wall?  
  
“Then let us begin our journey. I’ll take you two to Castle Black, from there I’ll request for the Lord Commander to send you South with a small group of brothers besides myself,” and so they left the dreary Nightfort, and began their trek east to Castle Black.


	41. Jon IV

**JON**  
  
Dragonstone was a wet and desolate place. At first Jon found it hard to believe that dragons had ever found it tolerable to live there because it was always wet. Everything and everyone were always damp and sticky with condensation or perspiration. The volcano Dragonmount did not help matters either, adding a perpetually smoky smell of ash everywhere on the island. The worst of all matters was that Jon didn’t mind the damp so much as he minded this heated dampness. It made his cold northern blood boil to be in such a constant state of mugginess—and he could tell it plagued Ghost as well, who almost always was panting while they stayed on Dragonstone. He did not mind the dampness—otherwise he would not have taken so well to the thought of life aboard a ship for what was likely to be the remainder of his days. He did not care about being damp when it was cool or cold out—in fact he reveled in that kind of weather and thrived in it. It was the humidity which bothered him so. And it was from this that Jon felt himself born to command a northern fleet and hope to never sail as far south again in his life.  
  
After arriving on Dragonstone with Davos, Jon was mostly kept aboard ship. There he was rising from the rank of “cabin boy” as he had been “promoted” to being a deckhand—learning to raise and drop the sail. Jon thought that Bran would be more likely to be adept at being a deckhand as he struggled with climbing a mast—but he still managed to do so nonetheless and keep his balance atop the upper boom as he helped furl and unfurl the mast.  
  
Jon had devoutly read the entirety of the book that Lord Stannis had given him in what little free time he had had, and was on his second read of it, making notes in the margins where odd things marked him about sailing. Such as why the designs of ships had to be so bulky and require the use of oarsmen, when a smaller and faster ship design could rely more on the wind to navigate it.  
  
He did leave the ship on occasion to accompany Matthos ashore, on trips to visit the local tavern. There Matthos enjoyed the fine company of a certain kind of women. In a way, Matthos reminded Jon of Theon—only a Theon who was kind to him as Theon had been originally to Robb. This at first made him suspicious of Matthos, but after a few trips ashore, Jon came to understand Matthos better and see that unlike Theon, Matthos took men for what they were, and left most preconceived opinions behind him, as Matthos had explained once after Jon had drunkenly admitted as much to why to his change in attitude:  
  
“What’s the point in thinking ill of someone simply because of their birth?” asked Matthos, he then took another swig of ale, interrupted slightly as he laughed as a long-haired woman he’d paid to keep him attention nibbled at his ear and whispered something that Jon was too drunk to hear properly. Matthos then wiped his mouth and said, “I mean, my father was born the lowest of the low—born in the dirtiest stenches of Flea Bottom. But through his achievements and hard work became an honorable and distinguished man to all of Westeros. Don’t ever forget that, Jon Stark—a man is what he makes of himself. Is that not the truth, Alenaeys?”  
  
And the light blonde giggled in response and pulled Matthos into a long kiss.  
  
During these nights out, Jon often found himself to be too polite a company to enjoy the women who frequented the taverns. Matthos would end up in the bed of one or two of them, while Jon would instead prefer to take a long drunken walk back to the ship. He had long ago vowed before the weirwood in Winterfell to never sire a bastard, and Jon intended to keep that oath. Unlike his father, he would not inflict his past situation on any of his children. He would only sleep with the woman he was to marry—of that he was determined. And whom to marry, Jon briefly pondered from time to time within the first few days of his arrival when everything had been work, ale, and good times. Sometimes he imagined the green-haired beauty of Wylla Manderly, other times he saw completely different women that he knew not whether they existed beyond his daydreams.  
  
At least that was how it was before a reply to his letter to his father returned from his stepmother with added notes from Arya and Sansa asking him about his current situation and for more information about father. The affect this letter had on Jon was profound in causing him to pass out in the tavern that night, only to awake in one of the women’s bed chambers—thankfully still fully clothed, minus his boots. He took care not to frequent the tavern as much or drink as hard after that near brush with siring a bastard.  
  
 _Father missing? And what have I been doing?_  
  
Ser Davos during this period had met frequently with the Princess of Dragonstone, as Lord Stannis’ wife referred to herself. Jon had taken the news of the Queen’s arrest of Lord Stannis to be an issue troubling, but one which he could do very little about and so had thought that Ser Davos would manage everything with the Princess. After receiving that letter from his stepmother, Jon decided to make the issue his concern. He, after all, was warded to Stannis to learn the art of sailing, was he not? And how had he repaid the man by drinking and letting others handle his problems?  
  
So the next time that Ser Davos was to meet with Princess Selyse, Jon requested to accompany him.  
  
“I’m not sure you’d enjoy the meeting. The Princess… is a hard woman to speak with.”  
  
“No harder than Lord Stannis?” asked Jon with a bit of a smirk. Matthos sniggered besides his father.  
  
“I’d take care to watch your tongue, lad.” He then eyed Matthos as he continued to speak, “I know not where you’ve learned it, but it will do you no good around the Princess.”  
  
Matthos himself could hardly keep from blushing abashedly in his father’s gaze.  
  
So Jon accompanied Ser Davos up to the castle, which was unlike anything Jon had prepared himself to see. The entire castle was made of black stone and constructed in a manner that was said to be of the “Old Valyrian” style. Everything was adorned with dragons throughout the castle—dragon claws held torches, towers were shaped as dragons, small dragons framed gates, pairs of great wings covered the tops of archways, intertwined with dragon tails. There was something remarkably majestic and awe-inspiring about the sight of dragons that at once made him tremble and ennobled himself—as though he were at war with himself on whether to love the castle or be terrified of it. Ghost did not find the stone dragons to be a welcoming sign and more than once stared his red eyes with suspicion at some of the more life-like carvings.  
  
The Princess was in her husband’s solar, which Jon found to have been seemingly converted into a Lady’s compartments, with several ladies-in-waiting dressed in magnificent silks and gowns. And there, sitting in the ebony black stone chair carved in the shape of a dragon, was the Princess of Dragonstone.  
  
She looked all wrong and as though she had no right to sit in that throne, but there she sat nonetheless. She seemed to be as tall as her lord husband, and as thin. She had pale eyes, a sharp nose, and some hair on her upper lip as though she were a lad of fifteen. She wore her hair in a style meant to cover her ears, which Jon could tell despite her best efforts to hide them, were rather too large for her head. After bowing before the Princess, she spoke to them.  
  
“I have some decidedly good news for a change, Ser Davos. We have received word from Lord Estermont that he agrees to our plans and shall keep the treacherous Lannister Queen occupied while you set sail to release our most noble King and our princely husband,” said the Princess in a low voice for a woman that reminded Jon of how Robb had sounded the year or two previously when his voice had decided to shift from the treble of a child to the tenor which it had resided at the last time they had spoken.  
  
“And the Lord Renly of course. I hardly imagine that Ser Estermont would agree to our releasing the King and Prince Stannis and forget about his liege lord.” reminded Ser Davos respectfully.  
  
“Yes, yes, him too. All the Brothers Baratheon shall be set free. You and a company of men shall sail to King’s Landing under a different sail than your Onion sail, pretending to be merchants from Essos come to trade. Once you have landed at the city, you are to shoot a flaming arrow up into the sky. That shall be the signal for Lord Estermont to begin a siege on the city. No one will come to rescue the Lannister Queen—they say even her own father has forsaken her by sending the Imp to counsel her! While the siege is taking place, Ser Davos, you are to sneak into the Red Keep with your men and release our imprisoned Stags. Then return to your ship and sail immediately for the Kingswood. Once there, you shall deliver them to a company of men that Lord Estermont shall have waiting there. They will then ride out to the gates of the city and demand the city yield to its King.”  
  
Ser Davos replied with a somewhat strained voice, “A well-thought plan, my princess.”  
  
The Princess smiled serenely before saying, “Indeed, I pride myself in thinking on having the mind of a man to be able to think on such matters. Though I will ascribe a bit of luck to this ingenious plan of mine, that Lord Renly had the forethought to call a few of his banners in response to the threat given by Lord Stark’s men present in the capital.”  
  
Just before the Princess could finish congratulating her luck, a new woman entered the solar, dressed in a silken red gown and with hair and eyes just as red. She had around her neck a small choker made of gold with a red ruby inlay in it that sparkled in the light. The woman enraptured Jon for a moment, and she too stared at Jon before passing on to speak with the Princess.  
  
“My Princess, I have come again to speak with you about your husband’s role in the Long Night to come—” began the woman as though speaking at this point by rote. Her accent was thick and exotic sounding to Jon’s ears, obviously from Essos he concluded after comparing it to the other Essos sailors’ tongues he had heard from the dockyard of Dragonstone.  
  
The Princess seemed irritated by this well-rutted course of action, “By the Seven, I know not why you persist in this folly of yours. My princely husband is but a mere man. If he were this savior of whom you speak Melisandre, then he would not have been captured by such a base-born creature as that Lannister woman. No Stannis is a fine prince, but simply a man nonetheless.”  
  
“Then I see I must seek out his counsel, if you will take none of mine, Princess. I leave you with this last piece of advice: Be careful of how you choose your gods, for the Long Night to come is dark and full of terrors… and only the fires of R’hollor shall burn them away, while your prayers to your false gods freeze in your throats.”  
  
“I wish you luck in speaking to him while he’s held prisoner in the Red Keep!” called out the Princess with a certain barbedness that neither suited her, nor improved Jon’s opinon of her. She then returned her attentions to the two men she had been speaking to previously, “Ser Davos, Lord Jon, you both are dismissed.”  
  
“I like not that woman!” murmured Ser Davos after they had left the solar.  
  
“The Lady Melisandre?” asked Jon  
  
“No, the Princess! She infuriates me to no end. Explaining my own plan to me as though it were her own and I were but a simple child!” Ser Davos caught his breath for a moment before adding in a slightly calmer voice, “Though I will admit the Lady Melisandre disturbs me to some degree as well.”  
  
And so they undertook to prepare for their journey, until of course Jon pondered how they would appear to be an Essos trading ship, at which point he asked Matthos one night in the tavern.  
  
Matthos seemed shocked momentarily by the suggestion, “We? We’re not going anywhere, Jon. You and I are to stay here on Dragonstone, while my knightly father rescues our Lord Prince. ‘Tis not so bad, if you think about it—the company at least will provide us some solace, eh?” And tonight’s auburn haired beauty traced her hands down his chest to Matthos’ privates and commenced to perform… indecent actions... above clothes for the whole public to see.  
  
 _Matthos must have paid her well and in advance._  
  
Jon then approached Ser Davos the next day in his cabin about his desire to join him aboard ship and assist in the freeing of the Baratheons. He was surprised to find the Lady Melisandre speaking to him.  
  
“Your ship is the only one bound for King’s Landing. I must have a place on board!” urged the woman with her silky voice.  
  
“A ship is no fit place for a woman,” committed Ser Davos.  
  
“And yet you have transported your wife, once in your life, have you not?  
  
“That was under different circumstances and in a different time, my lady.”  
  
Melisandre seemed perturbed at his response, and was about to say some remark, when Jon decided to interject with, “Ser Davos if I may be so bold as to speak, I think the Lady Melisandre would be invaluable to the trip.”  
  
“You do, lad?” questioned Ser Davos.  
  
“Aye. You are from Essos, are you not, my lady?” asked Jon  
  
Melisandre eyed Jon suspiciously for a moment before affirming, “Aye, from Assai.”  
  
“Who better to help with our disguise than an actual Essosi?” asked Jon  
  
After some hesitation on his own part, Ser Davos finally agreed, “Aye, I see your point,” and told Melisandre that she was allowed to journey with them to King’s Landing provided she help them with their ruse of being an Essosi trading vessel. The Lady bowed her head and said she would do what she could to help men of the Sunset Kingdoms to appear as enlightened as her Essosi brethren.  
  
“Is there a reason you disturbed me, Jon?” asked Ser Davos after the lady had departed.  
  
Jon was all duty and respect as he requested, “I wished to speak with you on joining the mission, Ser.”  
  
Ser Davos sighed and said, “I told Matthos no, and I'm telling you the same."  
  
Jon then interrupted, "Ser, I would care to contribute something. I do not like to be sitting here and doing nothing. I... _need_ to do something."  
  
Ser Davos shook his head and then said, "You shan't be doing nothing, Jon. You'll be reading that book Lord Stannis assigned, right?"  
  
Jon smiled as he said, "I am on my second reading of it, already, Ser."  
  
"On a book that thick?!" exclaimed Ser Davos with complete surprise.  
  
Jon nodded as he added, "Aye, Ser."  
  
"Well, no matter, I'll arrange for you to continue your practical studies with one of my other fellow captains. This mission is no place for greenboys such as you both are. We could very likely die or get captured, should we fail. The risk is too great. You both will stay here on Dragonstone. That is my final word on the matter lad, now go see that your wolf isn’t pestering the steward for more than his share.”  
  
“Aye, Ser,” was Jon’s dutiful if disappointed response as he left Ser Davos’ cabin. Not far outside of Ser Davos’ cabin, down a deserted corner of the ship he liked to go to when feeling especially down, he found the Lady Melisandre waiting for him. She silently slithered to him, hypnotizing him as though he were a mouse and she a snake.  
  
Her voice was smooth and sultry as she spoke, “I have seen your face in my Lord’s fires, standing beside Azor Ahai reborn and helping him to great victory. You are the instrument R’hollor has chosen to make the glory of Lord Stannis apparent to all of Westeros. Therefore you must come with me to King’s Landing.”  
  
Jon tried to speak from some sense of duty as though that would shield him from the enticements of the well-developed woman, “Unfortunately I cannot, my lady, as Ser Davos has commanded me to remain here on Dragonstone.”  
  
“He might have commanded Jon Stark, but he has not commanded Oewyne Storm,” said the lady with a grin that seemed almost sinister to Jon. And it was then that her eyes and the ruby at her neck did flash a fiery red color, and Jon felt a pain o’ertake his body as he crumpled to the ground as though his bones and muscles were shifting and reshaping themselves, and then just as suddenly they ceased. When it had finished he shook his head and brushed a long blond hair from his eyes.  
  
 _Wait… blond?!_  
  
The lady seemed proud of her work, saying, “Rise Oewyne, you have a voyage to prepare for.”


	42. Robb V

**ROBB**

 

When he’d heard his sister’s screams he immediately hobbled as fast as his injured leg would allow him. Lord Medger Cerwyn, who had been walking with him, quickly followed after him. He came to the tent to find some of his most loyal Winterfell men had already come to ensure the safety of his sister. He entered to find that his guards had entered and were knocked out, Lyanna Barrowstark was missing, but what his eyes caught a sight of was his sister Sansa knocked out over the table, a slight trickle of blood coming from some unseen wound in her auburn locks, and dripping down her face onto the table she was reaching out over to a dagger on the other end that he’d left out carelessly.

 

Immediately all anger and resentment that had been fostering since their argument that afternoon withdrew its sights upon seeing his sister in such a state. All he wanted to make sure was that Sansa, his little sister that he’d sworn to his mother upon her birth to always love and protect, was safe. And his anger supported the idea, egging him on to find and punish those who had harmed her.

 

He must have called for a Maester for the one who had been seeing to his wounds arrived and immediately directed Sansa to be placed upon Robb’s cot. After having assurances as to his sister’s likely survival from the man, Robb felt himself open to two choices before him. A part of Robb, the part that was but a pup, wanted to sit beside his sister to stay a vigil for her while the Maester tended to her. But his building anger countered, he was the Lord and his private concerns could not interfere with his greater duty to his men. The security of his entire camp was now called into question. If someone could sneak in, kidnap the new Lady of Barrowton and attack his sister, how could he ensure the safety of any man who fought for him? If no man could possibly be safe, even in his own tent, then his entire leadership as a Lord was called into question. No, he must address his duty as a Lord first. Later, after he had seen to his duty, he would come and help his sister, but now he had to help her in another way: by finding out who had done this to her and punishing them.

 

And so Robb immediately set out for the checkpoints at the perimeter of his encampment, to see if anyone of shady disposition had passed them. The aged and white haired Lord Medger was following him.

 

"Are you my shadow, Lord Cerwyn?" asked Robb.

 

"Someone needs to look out for your safety--there's been one attack, they might attack again," insisted Cerwyn, and Robb scowled at the thought of a second attack occurring on his watch. Robb also reminded himself that as the second highest Lord in the encampment Lord Cerwyn had every right to assist him with his search. It wasn’t until he came to the encampment on the eastern side that he found information that both alarmed him and began to explain things.

 

A stringy man with greasy hair spoke, “There were a few hooded men who were rather private upon entering the camp, my lord, but Lord Cley assured us that they were with him—though oddly enough he spoke as though they were all one man…”

 

“How many cloaked men?” growled Robb.

 

“Three, my lord, but they all wore the battle axe sigil of House Cerwyn on their tunics—that we could see beneath their cloaks. We thought it strange, but not out of the realm of the possible, given that the young Lord arrived today with men of his own with your Lady sister.”

 

“Do you know where Lord Cley and these men went?” asked Lord Medger quietly, in his tell-tale soft-spoken voice.

 

Answering Lord Medger’s question he turned to Robb at the end of his comment, “They went off in the direction of your tent.”

 

Robb felt as though he’d garnered as much information as he could, “Thank you, Denys.”

 

After walking in a direct line from the eastern checkpoint and returning towards his tent to trace Cley Cerwyn’s track, he pointedly asked Cley’s father, “Lord Cerwyn, what think you of this development?”

 

Lord Medger's beady grey-green eyes did eye him and he carefully measured his response before saying, “That if my son were involved on the attack of your sister, that he is a fool with his head clouded with ale, most likely.”

 

Robb, as a lord, felt the need to vocally give his sworn lord’s son the benefit of his doubt “I am sure your son is… blameless,” though his anger urged him on to continue holding opinions at the moment to the contrary.

 

Lord Medger quietly articulated his words, “Of that I am not so sure, my lord. ‘Tis my fault I suppose. I’ve indulged him and his whims far too much. As such he’s taken to thinking the strangest things to be humorous…”

 

Robb felt his blood boil at the suggestion of the attack on his sister could be such, “So you mean to suggest that this might have all been a jape to him?”

 

Lord Medger’s response was quiet but sharp and measured, “ _If_ he was involved, I am sure it was intended as such. For all we know he simply could have entered the encampment.” It reminded Robb just what the Cerwyn’s house words were: Honed and Ready. In the days before the Neck had been taken, they’d been the southernmost defense against the lands of the Marsh King, the first lines of defense to the South—and it seemed Lord Medger still took his house words to heart to be just as measured and prepared to deal with any situation.

 

And at that both Robb and Medger heard a groan from their left and turned to see, from out of a cart loaded with laundry, Cley Cerwyn did emerge from the stinking pile of dirty and bloodied tunics, small clothes, and breeches—looking battered and bruised himself. Clearly their intruders had left a trail for them to follow, and Cley had been their ticket into the encampment.

 

Robb and Medger both immediately helped the recovering, though obviously piss drunk, Cley out of the wagon and onto his feet. He couldn’t stand up on his own due to some injuries his legs had likely sustained and seemed to need the support of Robb and his father. Medger suggested, “We’ll sober him up and take him to my tent, so the good maester can work on your sister in peace.”

 

They took him to a water trough where the horses drank and dumped him in the cold water. Immediately Cley was shocked to his right senses.

 

“Others take you both in winter!” exclaimed Cley.

 

They then took him to Lord Medger’s tent, where he was given a chair and his father's blanket.

 

Robb immediately began questioning the younger boy, “You were seen entering the encampment with three men."

 

Cley looked rather confused as he replied, “Three? I only brought one in.”

 

Lord Cerwyn pointedly hit his mark as he said, “The _sober_ guards said there were three of them.”

 

Robb though was curious as to what this might mean, “What makes you say there was only one?”

 

Cley explained, though Robb could tell he thought it rather obvious, “They all looked alike in the tavern. I thought I was seeing triple.”

 

That seemed to be an important note to Robb, but he put it aside for the moment.

 

Lord Medger then asked his son, “Why did you bring these men into the encampment?”

 

Cley was at a loss for words, “I… uh…”

 

“Tell the truth, son, and mayhaps Lord Robb will be lenient considering his sister lives.”

 

At this news Cley's eyes grew wide with horror, “He--they attacked Sansa! They weren’t supposed to do that at all!”

 

Robb snarled, “What were they supposed to do?”

 

Cley's cheeks grew red with embarrassment, and he hung his head low to avoid meeting either his father or Robb's eyes as he spoke, “Well, you see, my lord, it’s just that… well Brandon Tallhart got to lead men in battle, you see while I… I got to sit at home or Winterfell and caper with the women. How am I supposed to measure up in the eyes of your lady sister if I never do anything of importance?”

 

Lord Medger, always one with a knack for words then said, “You are circling the fire, _jump_ into the flames and be done with it.”

 

Cley was abashed as he obliged his father, “He--they were only supposed to threaten to kidnap her. Then I was supposed to come in, fend them off and send them running… so I could be a bit of a hero to your sister. Mayhaps then she might speak to me again… It was all supposed to be a jest…”

 

Robb could no longer contain himself, and he grabbed the neck of the younger boy’s tunic and snarled, “My sister’s head is red with blood, and you speak of jests?”

 

Cley seemed horrified at the mere suggestion of the consequences of his actions, and frightened by Robb’s actions, flinching like a scared rabbit.

 

It was then that Robb felt a hand on his shoulder, and turned to see Lord Medger there who then said, “My lord, I believe you need to take a seat. Shouting at my fool of a son will do your lady sister no benefit.”

 

After a moment of glaring at the scared boy before him, Robb concurred, “Aye, it won’t.” He then let go of Cley and hobbled over to his own seat, his throbbing ankle aching all the while.

 

Cley then explained everything from the beginning, how after arriving in town how he’d gone to a tavern and proceeded to drink himself into a stupor, bragging about how he and the Lady Sansa were soon to be betrothed. The men—or man as Cley had thought of them—then approached him and asked him what his betrothed’s business in the town was, and they had gotten to talking about how Sansa was to meet her newly discovered cousin, the Lady Lyanna Barrowstark. Cley had drunkenly stumbled in private conversation over the reality of his relationship with Sansa, where in public he had bragged, and it was the man—men who suggested that he try and prove himself to his future betrothed by arranging the false kidnapping, and Cley had gone along with the idea giving Cerwyn tunics to help them enter the encampment.

 

From what it seemed the Lady Lyanna had been the primary concern of the three men—with Sansa seeming to have unfortunately gotten in the way. Considering that Cley had made the mistake in thinking the three of them one person that he’d drunkenly seen triple of, he knew exactly who had abducted his cousin and attacked his sister, and why. It all had to do with this damnable business of the inheritance of the Barrowlands. That House had just stricken itself from any possibility of inheriting—of that Robb would be sure to enforce.

 

Lord Cerwyn cautiously stated, “I shall speak to my son about his actions. If you grant it to me, I will see that he be severely disciplined, my lord. I apologize for any mistrust in my house that he may have sewn. It will not happen again.”

 

Robb’s simmering anger wanted to do something himself, but he knew that that might further strain relations between their two houses, and so he nodded and said, “Aye, my lord. I will leave you to him. I must now see to my sister.”

 

Sansa was not awake when he returned to the tent. The Maester said she would wake when she was ready and then promptly left after chastising Robb for being up on his ankle for far too long this day. Robb obliged the old man by pulling up two chairs—one for him and the other for his ankle and he took his little sister’s hand in his own, silently whispering a prayer to the Old and New Gods for her recovery—figuring she could use any and all divine aide. Memories of Jon being in a similar such position not too long ago plagued his thoughts—were they all cursed to suffer some sort of injury as thus? And was he to be so powerless to protect them each time? A fury unlike any he had known before, coursed through his blood at the mere thought. He would not be a whelping pup. He had to protect them—it was his job as the eldest and it was time that he started living up to it.

 

It was then that this moment that he was joined by Brandon Tallhart, who seemed to have run himself to the tent to be as out of breath as he was. His normally well groomed hair all in a disarray, and his eyes aglow with worry.

 

“Lord Brandon?” asked Robb.

 

He panted, slowly catching his breath as he explained his sudden arrival, “I… returned… as soon… as I heard. Is she all right?”

 

Robb did not know how to answer the younger boy’s question, finally settling on, “Sansa is… well, as is to be expected.”

 

Brandon nodded then looked around the disturbed tent, his eyes, Robb noted, lingering on the empty chair that had been previously occupied by Lyanna. It was after this that Brandon said, “I should have stayed here and protected them.”

 

“As should I have, but there’s no use in dwelling on the past,” Robb said as his father would have said, with hopes of convincing himself of that.

 

Brandon agreed, “Aye, none at all.”

 

“Good, then you know that I need you to rescue your betrothed.”

 

Brandon seemed slightly surprised by Robb’s suggestion, “You know where she is?!”

 

Robb dismissed the notion, “Not for certain, but I believe it to be the case without a shadow of a doubt.”

 

“Where?” demanded Brandon.

 

Robb smirked before saying, “We shall take some of your men and prepare to siege Goldgrass, if necessary.”

 

_No one attacks my siblings and not pay for it._

 

Brandon seemed to be taking the less enraged route by asking, “You’re certain?”

 

“Did I not say as much?” snapped Robb, feeling irritated at the suggestion he knew not his own mind.

 

Brandon was respectful but insistent, “Aye, but my lord, with your ankle, I am not sure it is a wise course of action for you to come.”

 

Robb knew he was right, but his blood still urged him to go, so he tried to stand without his cane, but only proved to cause him to collapse to the ground, “Damnable thing!”

 

Brandon helped him back into his seat and then knelt before him, locking his eyes to Robb's as he pledged, “My lord, I shall avenge all wrongs done to House Stark and rescue the Lady Lyanna—mayhaps even her brothers in the process, as I could find no hint of where they had gone in Southgate, so it's likely those who took her took them as well—but the North needs you to be strong. So I ask you to put your trust in me to see that I will complete this task you ask of me.”

 

Suddenly Robb was eight again, sitting in his father’s solar, knocking his feet against the legs of a chair he was sitting in as his father gave this sage advice, _“One of the first lessons, Robb, in ruling is knowing that you cannot do everything yourself. You must learn to find people whom you can trust and keep faith in.”_

 

And so Robb with a heavy sigh, gave his consent, “Aye, fight well,” and Brandon left the tent to gather some men.


	43. Edmure I

**EDMURE**

 

There was something rather fishy about the Starks—and it wasn’t just his sister’s influence. There was something positively _wild_ about them. He hadn’t noticed it at first, his concerns for Cat’s honor being paramount when he had first arrived at Winterfell, but now that he had stayed just over a two month in the castle and come to know the majority of his nieces and nephews, there was no denying that the Starks were as wild as the direwolf on their sigil. Seven hells, they even had direwolves as pets! Cat assured him this was a relatively recent development, but Edmure had his doubts.

 

His friends Patrek and Hendry had long since returned to their homes in the Riverlands since Moat Cailin and the Neck had been purged of the Ironborn invaders, but Edmure had stayed—much to the annoyance of his father, who seemed to have his doubts as to the Starks’ intentions, but Edmure assured his father that Cat, if anyone, ruled Winterfell in her husband’s absence. He had also added that since she was quite obviously quickened with child that any doubts that they had had about Eddard and Cat’s relationship proving distant, were indeed quite false.

 

No, what had worried him and his father was the news of his Uncle Brynden’s delay in King’s Landing. Brynden had written to his father—and his father had passed the letter on to Edmure for his opinion—saying that he was invited to extend his visit with the Royal family for the near future as an honored guest. Both Edmure and Hoster both had known what his uncle meant by that phrasing—he had been taken hostage, but not “officially” thrown in a black cell so as to offend House Tully. And with word that the Lannister Queen had staged a coup of the Baratheon brothers and now proclaimed her son Tommen as the crown prince regent over his supposedly “mad” father and herself the boy's regent, Edmure had no doubt as to his Uncle’s true situation in the Red Keep. The only consolation either had been when news of Jon Arryn’s possession of the Princess Myrcella became known. That had been news he’d immediately sent to his father and told him to spread to the other Lords Paramount as quickly as he could. Further news as to the discovery of Eddard’s location by Lady Lyessa Flint added more joy to the castle, and seemed to give Cat some long deserved relief.

 

At once he wanted to ride south and join his father’s gathering army and take the Red Keep—but with Cat, who had always been like a mother to him as a child, frantic with worry for the safety of her two eldest sons, not to mention her being alone and defenseless without her husband, Lysa’s bones waiting her lord husband’s arrival for a proper ceremony to be performed, and with his youngest nephews—both Stark and Arryn—lacking any kind of role model to look up to, Edmure felt that his family needed him more in the North than it did in the South. Uncle Brynden had gotten himself out of worse scrapes than this—he was a master of escape—and would no doubt prove himself worthy of such a feat again. Father was gathering his bannermen and would lead them as he had always done—dutifully and honorably. Edmure simply comforted himself with the idea that he would join his father’s swelling bannermen in the south after his duties to his family in the North were concluded—and he could only do that when his goodbrothers at long last arrived at the bloody castle.

 

And besides the women in the North proved to be a tempting, fresh, and almost exotic delight to taste after having gone through all the whorehouses in the Riverlands, and the ale! Oh such a magnificent smoky flavor from that winter wheat they grow North of the Neck. He’d have to see if he could nick some seeds before returning to Riverrun.

 

And besides all that, he was coming to truly enjoy the time he spent with his youngest nephews—both Rickon and Robert were different in their own ways, but obviously were becoming quite close being the only boys close in age at Winterfell. They also seemed to have a good affect on one another, from what Edmure could see. Rickon helped toughen Robert and Robert helped the wild toddler settle down somewhat. Edmure enjoyed spending as much time with his nephews it almost made him consider taking a wife and bringing a tiny fish cousin for them to play with in a few years’ time. Almost that is except for the times when Robert broke into a crying fit over something Rickon accidentally had said, or when Rickon resolutely refused to do something asked of him as simply to hand over the fork which he always kept at his side so that it might be cleaned.

 

Yet despite all this, his youngest nephews on the whole were much better than their worst moments. This was no more obvious than when the Old Falcon finally came to Winterfell with a motely company in tow.

 

“Lord Arryn, I welcome you to Winterfell” the little three year old had said as he had practiced. Being the “Stark in Winterfell” as it was known, it fell to the toddler to be the host—how odd a custom to always insist upon one of your bloodline to occupy a castle, thought Edmure. The entire household had been assembled in the courtyard for his goodbrother’s arrival.

 

It was then his other nephew approached his father and said, “Welcome, father…”

 

A small silence past between the father and son, as the Old Falcon took stock of the New. Since his arrival, young Robert had begun letting his hair grow from the short neat style his mother had preferred. It now was a slightly unruly mop atop his head, which the boy had a hard time keeping under control.

 

The Old Falcon at long last gave his son a warm smile and a brief, but obviously proud hug.

 

Accompanying the Old Falcon there was the Princess Myrcella, who shivered perpetually from the cold—though dressed in the warmest of furs. She looked as though she’d been to the frozen hell and back again.

 

Also in his goodbrother’s company was a simple blacksmith named Gendry—whom Edmure spotted as having more than a hint of Baratheon about him.

 

Returning to Winterfell was the daughter of Howland Reed—the man who had left Winterfell with Bran as his Cat insisted whenever he mentioned the possibility of kidnapping. She was accompanied by a woman unlike any he’d seen before—decked in furs from head to foot, whom only Rickon seemed to know.

 

“Osha!” exclaimed the toddler as he warmly rushed to the unknown woman, but found himself rebuffed coldly by her, much to his nephew’s confusion. It took Robert dragging his cousin away from the woman before he was calmed.

 

Last but not least was a man who much resembled his other goodbrother but was all decked in black. This Edmure took to be his goodbrother’s last remaining sibling, Benjen.

 

It was after all the introductions and welcoming had been given and the household in preparation for retiring to the warmth of the castle when the horn atop the Eastern gate sounded, followed by a shout from one of the guards.

 

“It’s Lord Stark!”

 

Immediately Cat called for the Eastern drawbridge to be lowered, and after it had been done so, she rushed across it as much as her four month belly would allow her, to the approaching black-grey mass that quickly gained ground on her. And there, for all of Winterfell to see, Lord Eddard Stark returned to his castle, riding astride a fully grown direwolf, with a Braavosi man! When he’d reached Catelyn, somehow the beast managed to stop, and Eddard jumped down, greeted his wife’s condition with utter surprise and shock and then pulled her into a kiss at once passionate and sweet. At this sight, many of the people of the castle disbursed, so as to give their Lord and Lady privacy, but Edmure could only stare on and wonder, if only for the slightest of moments if he could ever have a wife as loving and a relationship with a woman as strong as his sister’s seemed be. And suddenly Edmure found himself thinking that all his past sexual escapades began to feel very hollow indeed.


	44. Eldon

**ELDON**

 

The Seven must be laughing, of that Eldon was certain. In all his years of meeting battle since the War of the Ninepenny Kings, he’d never imagined that he would ever be planning a siege to King’s Landing on a Baratheon Queen—well, Baratheon by marriage, she was a full blooded Lannister besides that marriage.

 

Even still, that he’d be meeting with the kinsman of said Queen while quietly preparing for the signal to begin, under the pretense of being there to ensure justice for the trial of the Baratheon brothers' crimes against said Queen, was madness, yet nonetheless Tyrion Lannister and the sword of Sandor Clegane sat before him drinking his Arbor Gold as they discussed their current “situation”.

 

The Imp lived up to the longer version of his name in being impudent, “Frankly, Lord Eldon, I’m surprised you didn’t seize my sister when you had the chance.”

 

Had Eldon been drinking himself, he thought he might have choked on his wine at such a comment—luckily for him and his aging constitution, he had not been drinking. But he thought he knew what the dwarf was up to—he was attempting to goad him into letting down his defenses—and that he would not do.

 

If the Imp wanted wit, he’d give the Imp a battle of the tongues. Eldon wryly replied, “Your father would have appreciated that.”

 

The Imp’s mismatched eyes alighted with amusement, “At this point he might just do that. You see, Lord Eldon, you mark me as a reasonable man. You’ve fought in many wars and seen many Kings and Queens rise and fall in your three score and eight years, have you not? Well you’re about to see another.”

 

Lord Eldon could hardly believe the treachery—of all the base qualities that he’d heard the Imp posses—a sense of loyalty to his family had been one of his few virtues. Was this to be as easily given up now? “You’re abandoning your family?”

 

The Imp growled at the suggestion, “She abandoned our family, don't you see? While I’ll admit I find the way our King has treated our… dear Queen to be _reprehensible_ , her reaction to such treatment is without any logic or sense of sanity. Would not you agree?”

 

Eldon measured his response carefully, “She seemed in her speech to be rather… disturbed by the death of the Young White Hart,” as they referred to the lifeless Joffrey.

 

“Indeed. And let me just add, Lord Eldon that I find the black cells not to be a fitting place of residence for my rather small ass. I am rather fond of a whore’s bed—for they wear them in well—but dank sunless prison cells I am not. Nor am I accustomed to seeing a Queen seize power and rule under her own authority which she got by marriage and not birth. And we all know what happens to Queens of Westeros who attempt to rule in their own name, do we not?”

 

Lord Estermont remembered his history well—it was the dance of the dragons he was referring to, “Aye, their sons are crowned Kings.”

 

It was then that the Imp surprised him by smiling, “And if those Queens have no sons?”

 

“Speak plainly, Imp, you’re confusing him in his dotage,” grunted the Hound.

 

Dotage?! He was nowhere near his father’s ancient age to receive that title! “I take offense to that, Ser!”

 

“And I’m no Ser!” snarled the Hound.

 

The Imp then took hold of the conversation once more, “What I’m saying, my Lord Estermont, is that word has arrived from Lord Arryn that the Crown Prince Tommen did not survive the voyage that our King placed him on due to the unhappy misfortune of an Autumn storm, and that my niece has since being shipwrecked has become a sickly little girl worse in constitution than Lord Arryn’s son.”

 

This news hit Lord Estermont hard. All that was left of the Baratheons of kings Landing was a trembling fawn. “So all the Queen has as her claim to authority—”

 

The Imp interjected once again, “Is holding Fat King Bob, as the smallfolk call him.” He then laughed for a moment as Elon bristled at the wretched name. He then seemed to grow unbelievably grave much too quickly as he added, “My sister is half deranged, my lord, and with the way she’s running the capital by flooding it with goldcloaks to root out traitors and spies, cutting rations, and other such… harsh measures… the smallfolk are likely to revolt against her any day. And the nobility are apt to see her off the throne as well with whom she chooses to replace fallen members of the Small Council—Dorne won’t like to hear that their golden leopard has been replaced with the mountain. And of course in all this mess of trying to arrange a trial while waiting for the _honorable_ Lord Arryn to arrive, Lord Tyrell has informed us that the Knight of the Flowers shall be arriving any day now with a select few of his own forces to make doubly sure of the _fairness_ of the trial. Why even my father—who is up to his ears with Ironborn at the moment—could not support such a Queen.”

 

It stank of a trap, “We assured her grace that we were only here to ensure the… fairness of the trial, as you put it,” until a flaming arrow lit up the sky—where was Ser Davos? He should have left Dragonstone by now.

 

The imp seemed to have an answer for everything, “And I’m quite positive you will assure that our Queen does receive a fair trial, now that Lord Arryn is available to testify, shall you not?”

 

“Are you suggesting—?” began Eldon

 

The Imp gave a satisfied smirk, “I am. Let the trial proceed, but change who it is that is the accused.”

 

The offer was tempting, but his plans were already set… still, it could not hurt to allow the Imp to believe he’d won the day—it had worked with the “Mad Queen”, had it not? “I trust you not, Imp.”

 

“That, Lord Eldon you shouldn’t,” admitted the Imp honestly.

 

He felt the need to further clarify, to truly rub it in to the Imp’s face what his actions appeared, “I trust not any who turn on their family.”

 

“As I’ve said, Lord Eldon, I have not turned on my family. You’ll find me still quite… loyal to Casterly Rock. It is my sister whom has abandoned loyalty to us in her mad pursuit of power. She killed my brother. Oh, she may not have swung the hammer that sent him into a long painful death rattle, but her actions I assure you were the cause his death—and a kinslayer is no family of mine!”

 

The Imp for once seemed to show genuine emotion… mayhaps there was some small bit of truth to his words.

 

“And you Hound?” asked Eldon

 

The Hound stared at Eldon for a moment before replying with a grunt from his twisted face, “I am a King’s man.”

 

At this Eldon smirked and asked, “Aren’t we all?”


	45. Lyanna Barrowstark

**LYANNA**

 

When she had come to, Lyanna had found herself in a room with a nervous twitching girl with pale blond hair and pale skin, who on occasion shook her head to the right at odd intervals. Lyanna recognized the girl, three years her junior, as Dany Stout. She was her parents’ shame—rarely seen at the window of Goldgrass because of her inability to control her nervous twitching and stuttering.

 

“I—I—I am happy, t—tuh—to see y—yuh—your ladyship is awa—way—wake.”

 

“What am I doing here?” asked Lyanna

 

“W—wee—we’re to b—buh—be sist—teh—ters, your lad—dee—dyship.”

 

Marriage to the Stouts? Of course… it all made sense. They had been buttering up Lady Dustin for years in attempts to be proclaimed her heirs. Rod had always said that Lord Stout was a constant presence in Barrow Hall.

 

It was not much later that Lord Stout, dressed in his finest gold and russet chevroned tunic did arrive, with an old grey bitch lumbering after him along with several armed guards. He spoke to her in a manner betraying a false graciousness, “My _Lady_ Barrowstark, I apologize for any inconvenience that my sons in their eagerness to honor you with our cloak did handle you. You see they thought that marriage the old-fashioned way would be more… uh… _suitable_. Personally, I would’ve preferred approaching you as an _equal_ —but they were insistent.”

 

“Old-fashioned way?!” exclaimed Lyanna

 

“S—st—stealing.”

 

Lord Stout cast a hard glance in his daughter’s direction and she shied away as though prepared to be hit by him, “Indeed, Dany…” He then was all smiles again as he turned to Lyanna, and a man brought in a beautiful green and brown gown of the Barrowstark colors, “Now Lady Stout has taken some liberties to have bought you a new gown, your _ladyship_ , for it seems your current one is most… inappropriate for the occasion. The ceremony shall take place in a few hours, I do hope you have enough time to prepare, your _ladyship_.”

 

Each time he emphasized her newly acquired title, Lyanna felt as though a knife were being stabbed into her. “You hideous dog! I’ll never marry one of your sons!”

 

She moved to strike him, and one of his guardsmen knocked her to the ground rather hardly with a blow to her gut.

 

He then spoke darkly, “Careful, your _ladyship_ , we wouldn’t want anything to happen to your dear little brothers now, would we?”

 

Of course he had Marq and Osric. That must have been his original plan, to blackmail her into marriage with his sons with their lives. She demanded, “You let them go!

 

Lord Harwood gave a most obliging smile, “I shall most willingly release them, your _ladyship_ , once you and my eldest son Tybolt are before a weirwood tree.”

 

“A marriage made with a sword over your head is no true marriage!”

 

Lord Harwood then gave a mock search above her head before saying, “Where is the sword over your head, your _ladyship_?”

 

He then left her to prepare for the ceremony, saying she would be allowed to see her family one by one before it was to commence.

 

Gods, she wished she’d never gone to Lord Robb—it had been a gamble to get the title—a title which she thought would have secured Southgate and the futures of Marq and Osric… but instead it had only made her a prisoner to that title.

 

Dany was there to help her into her new gown, it seemed, and though it had been purchased with blackened gold, Lyanna did have to admit she rather liked the feel of a new dress on her body. It was much warmer than that worn thin rag she’d been wearing for the past two years straight.

 

Marq was the first to visit her. He entered quietly and solemnly—he was now the heir of Southgate and the head of the family, though he was but a boy of eight. His long straight dark brown hair was pulled back into horse’s tail and tied with a brown and green ribbon in a simple knot. He as well had been given new clothes in the Barrowstark colors, and he wore them with distinction. He carried himself with a straight back and distinction that would have made her father and Roderick proud—a barrowknight’s stride—they would have said. Lyanna, foregoing all courtesies scooped up her serious little brother into a hug—taking him by surprise as she did so. And together in silence did they cry as Dany attempted to arrange her hair in as pretty a manner as her twitching fingers could allow. The only words Marq said before he was taken from her by a guard were a quiet apology he whispered in her ear for failing her. She was in tears for a while after that.

 

When Osric came to her, he had to be pushed into the room, and once in the room he proceeded to thrash, shout, and ruin the new clothes he’d been provided—not that he would’ve cared about them anyway. His wild brown hair and grey eyes all displaying the mess of emotions he obviously felt. Dany attempted to scold him for making a scene before a Lady, to which he responded, “She’s no lady. She _begged_ for that title. Barrowstarks beg not!”

 

She could not stand his accusations, “What do you know of what I did? You weren’t there!”

 

“Lady Beggar! Lady Beggar!” he kept shouting that accursed title, working himself into a right fit. Lyanna knew better than to try and calm Osric down when he was in one of these moods—better to let him tire himself out, and so she did her best to ignore him, much to Dany’s surprise. And when the guards came for him, they had to drag him out of the room as he continued to kick, scream and bite.

 

After his screams had died down being taken to a distant part of Goldgrass the guards next came for her, with Lord Harwood and Marq there to greet her.

 

He sneeringly said, “My apologies to rush you my _lady,_ but it appears you invited some guests to your wedding which were not on the list. I am afraid I’ve had to bar the gate to them and tell them that they shall not be able to see your ladyship until after the marriage has taken place.”

 

Dany was to help her with her gown as she traveled through the mean little keep down to the courtyard of Goldgrass and towards the Godswood. Marq at her side in place of her father, and trying to be all the part.

 

Just as she was to enter the gates of the Godswood she heard a shout from one of the guard towers followed by the sound of groan—Lyanna turned to see that the man who’d shouted had been show through with an arrow in his throat grab at his throat and fall from the tower window. Immediately Lyanna reacted to grab Marq and pull him away from the falling man. Dany screamed and ran immediately into the Godswood for protection. The guards quickly abandoned their procession to assist in the fight that all too quickly absorbed the small castle. From the Godswood Lyanna saw two of her soon-to-be husband’s brothers rushing to the nearest stairs to join the battle themselves. All around Lyanna the sounds of arrows flying, the shouts of men, and eventually even the clanging of a battering ram against the gate then all too quickly rose into a cacophony. And as this near deafening roar her arm was grabbed tightly by the one good arm of Lord Harwood.

 

He commanded her, “This marriage will happen, siege or no siege! My forefathers did not spend centuries pruning the Dustin family tree to fail now!”

 

Marq in this moment slipped from her grasp and snagged Lord Harwood’s sword from its sheath. He held it pointed straight for Lord Harwood’s belly and doggedly but quietly demanded, “Let my sister go!”

 

Lord Harwood seemed to acquiesce to his demand, but then in a sudden motion both drew a dagger, knocked the large sword from Marq’s unsuitable child grip, and sliced his dagger across her brother’s face, causing him to fall into the dirt. In agony he rolled and screamed once in utter agony the dirt, before trying to control himself with large deep breaths.

 

“Marq!” cried Lyanna, but before she could kneel down to sooth him, she was stopped by the enraged form of Lord Stout.

 

“Come, my _lady_ , or I’ll gut him like a deer.”

 

And with a fury unlike any she knew she kicked him where she knew it would hurt most and spat in his face—causing him to drop his dagger and coil to the ground in pain. Immediately Lyanna grabbed both dagger and sword that had since fallen and ended the life of Lord Harwood with what would likely be her only chance to do so—with his own sword through his chest, and the dagger across his neck. Blood spurted on her, blinding her for a moment, so that when she looked up, satisfied with what she had done to protect Marq she saw the boy who was likely Tybolt at the gates to the Godswood, staring on in utter horror. He then drew his own sword and in fury charged at her. Lyanna, forgetting the dagger and grabbing the sword with which she had ended one Stout’s life pulled it from its fleshy sheath and prepared to defend herself and Marq—she knew not how to fight with a sword—swinging wildly in response to Tybolt’s mad thrusts, luckily hitting more times than most. Soon though he had disarmed her and cornered her on her back in the dirt.

 

“Prepare to d—!” but before Tybolt could finish his promise Lyanna saw the point of a long dagger poke through his gut. Tybolt, stunned, stared at the metal poking through and then it withdrew and appeared once again not a moment later in another part of his gut. Tybolt’s brown eyes then did roll up and he collapsed, exposing Marq holding Lord Harwood’s bloody dagger.

 

It was then that the castle gate did burst open and Tallhart forces stormed through to find Lyanna and Marq standing over the dead bodies of Lord Stout and his heir. The rest of the siege did not last much longer as Lord Stout’s two remaining sons had been shot—one through the eye, and the other his ear with arrows upon the walls. This left the quivering Dany Stout and her mother Isolde the only Stouts left alive and quite willing to bend the knee to her true betrothed, Brandon Tallhart—a most welcome face—e’en if it were disfigured—for Lyanna to see.

 

“My lady, I am glad to see that you are—” began Brandon, but Lyanna did not allow him to finish, pulling him into a kiss of gratitude. She might have saved hers’ and her brothers’ lives, but he did now set them free, and she would be sure to thank Brandon for it once they were married, but in the meanwhile, this would have to do.


	46. Catelyn IV

**CATELYN**

 

She didn’t know how to describe it but there was rather something different about Ned. She had been so glad to see him the first few hours she did not notice the way his normally cloudy gray eyes now seemed perturbed as if they were enlived with a storm. In the hall, her normally quiet husband this night did revel with his proud lords assembled for him, nearly as loud and boisterous as they were.

 

He is but come home after a long separation—it is nothing.

 

Or at least that is what she told herself. She continued to notice slight changes in his behavior that made her suspect something was different about her Lord husband, and she wasn’t sure how to feel about it. And that uncertainty is what scared her.

 

What had blown the horn of danger off in her head was when they had retired to her chambers. She had longed for him these past few months to be with her in her bed—and she knew he had as well—but that longing gave no excuse for how rough he was being. Ned, especially when she was so obviously with child, had always been a cautious and sweet lover. Though he made no doubt that he was the man of the relationship it always took her inviting him and initiating any foreplay to begin their couplings, being the perfect honorable gentleman inside the bed chamber as well as without.

 

Tonight he himself initiated everything, without waiting to go through the usual steps, the ones she had come to love him for. As much as she found Ned’s quiet habits irritating at times, in moments like these she had found them rather endearing and comforting. The rough hands and nibbling with which he did commence their session excited, shocked, and paralyzed her with fear. As if sensing this, the nameless young black and white wolf pup did growl a warning at her husband—and most shockingly of all he did growl back! The wolf pup then did retreat next to his mother who had curled up disturbingly serenely next to the hearth. This itself had caused her paralysis and made Ned to stop when her words had failed her.

 

“Why so cold tonight?” he asked, trying to kiss a trail down her front from her neck to see if she would respond.

 

When he did pass her naval, she did recover the use of her tongue, “Ned… please stop…”

 

With words that almost sounded like a whimper he did say, “Did not you miss me?”

 

She then said, stumbling about the words, “I did, Ned, very much. But this… this frantic coupling isn’t… us.”

 

He did seem to stare at her for a moment, and she could see something shift in his eyes—the storm did seem to clear from them and they returned to their serene cloudy state.

 

“You are right, Cat… I know not what has come over me… Gods! The babe!”

 

“It is all right, my love. I am sure there is no harm to our son or daughter.”

 

He rose at once from her bed, and moved to the part of the floor where he had madly disrobed to collect his clothes, “I must leave.”

 

“Ned…” She did not want him to leave, of that she was sure.

 

His face once again became the mask of duty as he did say, “If I cannot control myself around you then I am a danger to the child.”  


She could only sigh and implore, “Ned, you are no danger. Come back to bed and just hold me, please. Nothing more need happen tonight.”

 

_Stay with me Ned… be gentle and stay…_

 

And rather gingerly did he oblige her, and she did settle herself into his tender grasp. This was the Ned Stark that she knew and loved, of that she was most certain. But what of the other? What had caused him to act near feral? As she drifted off to sleep a hazy memory did return to her of Ned speaking once in their bed of a dream he had had:

 

_“I was running through the forest... and then I chased a deer down and killed it… tearing it apart with my mouth… it was at once thrilling... and succulent…”_

 

And for the briefest of moments she did wonder if when the wolves had come to Winterfell something wild had not been awoken in the Stark blood of her husband that had slumbered for several generations. And the mere thought did send a icy chill down her spine.


	47. Lady

**LADY**  
  
When she awoke the first thing she saw was a gray tail on her snout. It was her gray packmate’s tail--the one who followed the eldest man pup. _Greywind._ She knew the name and yet did not at the same time, and that marked her as odd. Still it did not change the fact that his tail was on her snout and he was still asleep. Perturbed at this arrangement, she nudged his tail off her snout and then rose to stretch out her limbs. They felt cramped after having been curled under her the entire night.  
  
Running was the first thing that came to her mind. It would stretch out her legs. So she trotted out of the rock where her little cousins slept and out onto the grassy heart of the man rock. It was quiet and growing darker out. The trees which rose and fell to open the man rock were standing up, so there would be no run in the forest. The grassy heart of the man rock would have to do. She set a pace in the direction away from the setting sun and when she’d run as far as she could in that direction, she turned and ran in another. When she crossed under a long thin rock which man used to cross from one side of the man rock to another she heard a sound of a woman pup crying. Curious to what this meant, she stopped her run and followed the sound. Eventually she came to a small crevice in the man rock where she saw two woman pups--one yellow furred and crying and the other dark furred and trying to comfort the other’s tears. _Beth. Jeyne._  
  
“Here Beth, we can talk here… tell me, what’s wrong.”  
  
“Jory got a letter from Greywater Watch.”  
  
“Well, that’s good news intit? Your father must have found--”  
  
But the dark furred girl stopped as the yellow furred girl held out a shiny rock on what looked like a vine to her.  
  
“Lady Reed wrote that her crannogmen found this in the swamp.”  
  
“Oh, Beth!”  
  
“He’s dead...” cried Beth  
  
“He could have lost it.”  
  
“He’s dead, I’m sure of it!”  
  
Beth’s tears moved her, and she felt as though she needed to do something. _Help her._ So cautiously she moved from her spot and approached the two girls. Beth saw her first.  
  
“Get away!” she hissed at her as she backed further into the crevice of the man rock.  
  
 _Must help her._ And so she kept her approach, only to be kicked by Beth. She yelped in response and fled, as she did she heard the two woman pups say:  
  
“Beth, the poor pup was just tryin’ to…”  
  
“I like them not. Ever since they came here, nothing’s been the same. Sansa’s different, odd things are happening... and it’s all because of them!”  
  
When she was sure she was far enough away she did she did stop to lick where Beth’s foot had hurt her rear leg. It hurt but only in a small way and not as much as the words, words which she half knew and half knew not.  
  
Just then the breeze did pick up. On the breeze she did smell prey—small winged meat. _Hungry._ Feeling hurt could wait.   
  
Following the smell she trod across the grassy area to the rock of good smells—where prey was heated and made appetizing. She did lick her snout in eager anticipation. Oh to rip into that small winged prey’s legs—the dark meat—so sweet, so lush… so tender. She waited to sneak in when a man opened the door wide, she swiftly scurried in behind him and swiftly nabbing one of the small winged meats she bolted as fast as she could out of the rock of good smells, retreating to where the small cousins of the man rock slept. She heard shouts behind her as she ran, but she care not, for she knew she could outrun the large man that followed her. And eventually he did give up the chase when he had grown so tired that he had to stop and pant.  
  
Once she had returned to where here small cousins did sleep she saw a few at her entrance howl and make a fuss, pleading, begging, or trying to intimidate her to give up her prey—but she would not. It was hers. Finding her pack’s old spot—which was hardly used anymore as they could not all fit inside it anymore together—she dropped the prey and began to politely nibble at it. Words that she half knew and half knew not flitted through her head—words that she knew men would know but that she as a wolf should not know. _Delectable_. _Honeyed_. _Delicious_.  
  
For a time she did enjoy half her chicken, but as she finish half she then saw her gray packmate slink in to the shared space. For some reason unknowable to her, she thought she could sense something different about him—as though he weren’t only just her gray packmate in this moment but something more. _Brother_. Again words which had little meaning to a wolf did flit through her mind.  
  
Her gray packmate then did join her, a sense of sadness to his gait as he did walk across the straw strewn floor. She knew not why her gray packmate who was more at this moment was so sad, but it certainly did dampen her enjoyment of the small-winged prey. So after her gray packmate had finally settled himself on a pile of straw, she nudged the remainder of the carcass she’d been picking at to her packmate. He looked at it for a moment once it had been placed before him and then he seemed to understand. Tearing at the remaining half he did eat his fill.  
  
Satisfied with herself, she decided to curl up for the time being and sleep.


	48. Oewyne I

**OEWYNE**

 

As Jon, Oewyne remembered asking his sister Sansa when the youngest had told them of their time in the other future how she had managed to last for so long in disguise.

 

“I had to be Alayne Stone all the time. Even when I was alone.”

 

Oewyne now found that question to have come in handy. Following his sister’s example, he tried to emulate the Oewyne Storm he’d seen, but hadn’t especially spoken with on the journey to Dragonstone. From what he remembered, Oewyne had kept to himself out of all the other deckhands. He had originally come from another ship, only recently transferring onto Davos’ Black Onion while in King’s Landing due to some dispute or other on the last ship he’d served on.

 

Melisandre had answered his questions about the magic she’d performed—she claimed it was a gift from her God, but Jon suspected otherwise—no God he knew worked in such a… direct manner. She gave him a pendant with the image of a scroll on it that she called a glamour and told him to keep it on him at all times, otherwise he would return to his normal appearance. And the other Oewyne was left behind on Dragonstone having drank too much ale, as Melisandre put it. Though the way she had said it, she had sent a shiver down his back.

 

Melisandre saw to it that the ship and crew were properly prepared to pass for an Essosi trading ship—clothes were changed, beards and hair dyed and trimmed, until the crew could hardly know one another. Everything, Oewyne noted became more ostentatious and bold—as though they wanted to stand out in a crowd. Melisandre was to play the part of a missionary come to convert the faithless Sunset Kingdoms—which was an easy enough part for her to play.

 

Just before they were to set sail another new member joined the crew—to presumably replace the spot that Jon would have had. And unfortunately for Oewyne, he soon discovered that he came from the ship that the other Oewyne had served on. His name was Marten Sayls and he was a burny dark haired man of eight and ten years with what seemed to be a cruel grin. And what was worse was he seemed to take a particular interest in Oewyne.

 

On the night they left Dragonstone Marten approached Oewyne while he was supposed to serve his shift above deck keeping watch for any sign of unwelcomed ships, Marten did approach him.

 

With a smirk, Marten asked, “Miss me Oewyne?”

 

Oewyne, not knowing how to respond, chose a non-commital shrug. That earned him a blow to his gut.

 

The young man snarled a bit more firmly, “I asked, did you miss me, Oewyne?”

 

Oewyne spoke as he imagined someone just being punched in the gut should respond to such a question with a resounding, “No.”

 

This time Marten grabbed him by his throat with one hand, and squeezed. It wasn’t enough to choke him, but it sure did make breathing harder.

 

Marten slapped away Oewyne’s hands when he tried to fight off the grip, and said, “What was that, bastard? And here I thought we came to an… arrangement. I thought you made it clear just how much you cared about your little sister’s life…”

 

 _Arya! No… not Arya. I am Oewyne Storm, not Jon Stark_.

 

Marten’s eyes were all aglow with lightening as he said, “So I ask you again, did you miss me?”

 

Figuring the other answer had been the wrong one, Oewyne croaked out, “Yes.”

 

Marten smiled, let go of Oewyne’s throat and said, “Good, and just in case you get any other bright ideas about transferring again, know that I’ll keep following you, Storm.”

 

Oewyne as soon as his watch was through set to the task of finding out as much as he could about Oewyne by examining what few personal belongings he had left in his hammock below decks. He hadn’t bothered before, considering he’d been an outcast to the ship. But now that someone knew him, he knew every bit of information he could get would help him.

 

In the bag Oewyne found clothes, a few trinkets such as a small carved wooden knight, a cyvesse piece, and other such odds and ends which obviously meant something to the other Oewyne. There was a tiny portrait of a girl that Oewyne thought rather pretty—on the back was written in neat quillstrokes To Oewyne, love Cassana. And there were a few letters. From what he could gather Oewyne was the bastard half-brother to Cassana Swygert, who owned a small island off of the coast of the Stormlands. He and his half-sister apparently had a good relationship, with them having bonded after the death of her parents when she was young. She was the heir to the island and in the guardianship of her father’s steward’s son, a man named Pol Sayls—who apparently was the elder brother of Marten, who by her accounts apparently had been his “close friend” for many years. Judging by how Marten treated Oewyne, he figured Oewyne had spared his sister the true nature of the friendship. Oewyne took another look at the portrait, and stared at the face of his newest little sister. She had long blond hair, like Oewyne, brown eyes, a straight nose, a narrow chin, and a broad forehead.

 

What had Melisandre gotten him involved in?


	49. Brandon I

**BRANDON**

 

In the aftermath of taking Goldgrass, Lyanna had kissed him. At the time Brandon knew not how to respond. Ever since Robb had suggested the match to him, Brandon had truly considered it as a way to forget Sansa, as well as a way to secure his and his heirs future, not to mention rub it into Benfred’s face just what he gave up refusing to lead the Tallhart forces south. He’d thrown himself entirely in coming to know Lyanna, spending time with her and meeting her brothers—Marq and Beren were near the same age and as like to truly come to see each other as brothers with time, as Beren was a kind and gentle soul, just like their mother. Beren wouldn’t like the rough and stubborn Osric. His mother would love to have Lyanna as a daughter, she had always wanted a daughter, but Beren’s birth having been so difficult had decided against having more children thereafter. The only one Brandon knew not how they would react would be his father. His father who had ne’er had much time for either him or his brother. Would he even notice his betrothal and then marriage to Lyanna? Likely not. But beyond him, Brandon had begun to imagine what life would be like joining their two families and coming to appreciate Lyanna more than he did by working with her to rebuild Barrow Hall and the Barrowlands from the ground up.

 

Sansa’s arrival had… complicated this. At first Brandon was rather upset that she would leave the safety of Winterfell and put herself in danger by riding to what had been the frontlines not so long ago. Then he admired her bravery in doing so. Then he chastised her stupidity in putting her trust in Cley Cerwyn. Then he had taken a bit of pity as he realized she had known not Cley’s true nature—she had always been one to believe in songs they’d play acted in their games of Knight and Lady. To then anger that it had taken him showing any slight interest in someone else to spark even the barest hint of any concern for him. She hadn’t taken her leave of him when he and Robb had left Winterfell. She’d hugged and kissed her brother, but they had passed each other in an icy silence. And now that she was lying unconscious, though still alive, Brandon knew not what to think as he was exhausted from the bumpy wheelhouse ride that was his relationship with Sansa. Why couldn’t they go back a few years to when they had been his brother Beren’s age? When loving Sansa was imaginging an easy life together—he’d go, become a knight, make a name for himself, mayhaps if he was lucky earn a title or two, and then return to ask Lord Stark for the priviledge of marrying her, and she would have been there, waiting. Only Sansa hadn’t waited. And while he had gone and earned himself honor and distinction, even the chance at a title, it all depended upon his marrying someone else entirely.

 

Could he be happy with Sansa? He couldn’t say anymore with certainty. Could he be happy with Lyanna? There at least was the possibility that they might. They’d make their own happiness, together. And so when Robb asked if he and Lyanna along with her brothers would care to return to Winterfell, so that Lyanna could see her younger brothers off before they were to be fostered there. He had readily agreed, thinking it would put some distance between himself and Sansa. He did not realizing that at the same time he was to be escourting Sansa’s sleeping body for the return trip as well, as Lyanna tended to her.

 

Robb had assured him “And after you return, we’ll march South and take on the Ironborn together.”

 

And so he led the procession, Sansa being laid in an old rickety carriage that had been found in Goldgrass and been allowed the use of as part of the arrangement that came as the family’s penance. Of the Stouts, Robb had absolved Dany Stout of any actions on the plea of mercy from her mother that it had largely been Lord Stout and his son’s actions in attacking the Barrowstarks. For her crimes which she did freely admit since the dressmaker in town was apt to testify against her, Lady Isolde Stout was stripped of her titles, giving way to her daughter. By her father and brothers’ deaths, as well as her mother’s forfeit of her own titles, Dany Stout had become the heiress of Goldgrass at the ripe age of ten.

 

To set wrongs right, Lyanna went a step further and as the newly instated Lady of Barrowton offered to promise either of her own brothers to the young Lady Stout to prevent a similar situation than had befallen herself, if Dany desired it. Dany was counseled by her mother to accept and the details as to which brother being left to a later date as to the choice. Marq and Osric had different reactions to hearing that for one of them their wife had already been chosen. Neither quite liking the idea of thinking of girls—especially a girl such as Dany Stout—in that manner, but of the two Marq being the more favorable to at least see the honor in protecting such a lady, while Osric…

 

“I hope she never flowers!” was more apt to complain and throw a fit.

 

Thankfully though, Winterfell would have time to shape these two young Barrowstarks so that they might come out more like Robb and Jon in the end—at least Brandon hoped for that.

 

One night, when they had stopped to make camp, he came to the carriage to see the sleeping Sansa. Lyanna had fallen asleep in the seat across from Sansa, but he did not pay her much thought as his eyes solely looked to the sleeping girl he had loved. Her hair had been cut short so as to sew back the skin where it had opened and a bandage did cover the stitched up wound. Her eyes were closed and though she clearly breathed, to any other person it might have seemed as though she were laid out ready for her coffin. She was kept in the seat by a wooden rail which had been constructed and added to the carriage to ensure that during the ride she would remain in the seat and would not tumble to the floor. Brandon knelt by this railing, placing his forearms on it as though he were a worshiper of the Seven before one of their statues.

 

Sansa had not awoken once since the incident, and that worried Brandon—though oddly enough it did not worry Robb, who was confident that all Sansa needed, was to be returned to Winterfell where everything would then be set right. Brandon knew not why Robb was so insistent on seeing Sansa returned to Winterfell, but he would do as he was asked.

 

Looking at Sansa as she was laid out, Brandon pondered at how much it was like one of the old songs he and Sansa had believed as children. The princess, doomed to remain asleep due to some curse or other, and the knightly prince come to rescue her and reawaken her with a kiss. Mighten’t it work? No, he had made up his mind to make a future with Lyanna. Had he? Aye. But still, if it did work… mayhaps the gods… no, those were just songs… but even songs came from somewhere, did they not?

 

And so gently he rose, leaned over the railing and did give a soft kiss to Sansa and then pulled back and waited.

 

They were just songs after all.


	50. Clyffe III

**CLYFFE**  
  
Clyffe adjusted to life as a deckhand fairly quickly—though when ship came close to shore for a raid—he was quickly tossed back in with Ser Rodrick, Emrik and Skae. After the first occurrence of it, he attempted to swipe or keep a little extra of his food rations to share with his three friends in secret. It seemed he was only to be trusted when far from shore, which wasn’t as often as he’d thought. Clyffe eventually came to see why though as this ship was still in the waters of Blazewater Bay, accompanied by a tiny fraction of a fleet.  
  
From what he could gather from the other deckhands there was an argument over whether to stay raiding in the North or join the rest of the Iron Fleet which had moved South to take on the Westerlands and done pretty well for itself. The only thing keeping them in Blazewater it seemed was the lady captain’s insistence on “getting blood for blood”. Apparently some lords in the North had killed her kin and she had set a course for avenging his death—e’en though she’d hardly known him since he had been a boy.  
  
“The Starks took him from us and killed him without cause. They shall come to pay the Iron price!” he had heard her once say to her next mate.  
  
“Meanwhile Victarian takes all the prize of Lannisport,” muttered her mate.  
  
"I doubt there's much left to take after three fireships."  
  
"We're chasing a fool's dream here in this Bay. We should be South with Victarian. The fleet should not be split."  
  
They then had noticed Clyffe’s attention and grew quiet and moved to a different part of the ship—one where they would not be heard as easily.  
  
It was on one of the few They were sailing through the waters of Blazewater Bay when a ship flying a gray hand flag was caught sight and beneath it flew a flag bearing the image of a red cliff—immediately Clyffe recognized the latter as belonging to the Redcliff family. They must have sailed back up into the Saltspear! Immediately Clyffe looked for any sign of a small hut along the distant shore—but it was all too far away.  
  
They were to take the ship—it was likely the family’s sole galley as all coastal families kept at least one ship usually meant to ward off pirates from raiding—and it was all alone. A call to take weapons was called out with all the deckhands being passed a bow and arrows—even Clyffe. In all the commotion they had forgotten to throw him back in with Ser Roderick and his squires.  
  
“Know how to shoot?” asked the weapons master deckhand as he handed him his set for the attack.  
  
“Not really…” said Clyffe honestly—he had no idea if he knew how to shoot or not. He had not spoken to anyone of his inability to remember his life before Nylla, for he figured that that life was over and this one was a new one.  
  
“Just knock an arrow, like this, then aim and shoot—real simple.”  
  
And simple is how Clyffe found it. Immediately taking a bow into his hands somehow felt right, as though the bow were but an extension of his own arm. As they came close upon the Redcliff ship a volley of arrows was exchanged and Clyffe hit his mark. He managed to put in two more arrows—killing three of the Redcliff crew, while some of his fellow deckhands proved unable to even hit any of the people. Though it seemed no one took notice of his ability as the focus was all too much on taking the ship. As each arrow had hit their mark, Clyffe told himself that each arrow shot was another likely to get him a step closer to returning to Nylla.  
  
Another passing and the Redcliff ship surrendered, allowing themselves to be boarded, and the remainder of their crew to be taken hostage. After a bit of finagling it was determined to give command of the new ship to the Lady Captain’s mate, who would sail the ship back to Pyke with a bare bones crew to be refitted, resupplied, and then to return to the Blazewater fleet.  
  
And so Clyffe set out for Pyke on board the taken Redcliff ship.


	51. Eddard IV

**EDDARD**  
  
Sansa returned to Winterfell the day after Eddard had. And that day Eddard had seen ghosts rise from the dead in the form of the three Barrowstarks—the eldest it seemed to have inherited the Barrowlands after a succession crisis following the death of Lady Dustin. Letters concerning his survival must have left before the Barrowton party’s departure from the Barrowlands, and they had apparently been delayed a few times due to the old carriage they had used to bring Sansa back had broken down and a wheelwright, blacksmith, or carpenter had to be sent for from the nearest hold fast. Eddard was simply grateful that his daughter was still alive—though asleep. Her direwolf, Lady took to guarding his daughter while she slept, while Cat—the gods bless her—had taken the sign that Sansa had not awakened as a sign of displeasure from her Seven for not acting to prevent Theon Greyjoy’s death, and had sought penance in her tiny quiet Sept.  
  
Escorting the party was Brandon Tallhart, whom Eddard remembered being a close friend to his daughter Sansa. Eddard was shocked to see half the boy’s face still in bandages from wounds he’d received from the burning of Barrow Hall. Robb had betrothed the boy to the young Lady of the Barrowlands, which Eddard thought it a little strange considering permission had not been granted from Lord Tallhart, Brandon’s uncle. But further explanation of the situation allowed Eddard to come to understand why. Though touched by the boy warrior’s sense of loyalty, he thought that the Tallharts should attempt to reconcile—families are like a pack, and the pack needs to stick together.  
  
Truth be told upon hearing the Barrowstark family name Ned had been quite reluctant to fulfill Robb’s well-intentioned promises. But then he had seen them face to face and thought he had seen ghosts. Lyanna, gods she was his sister come again—oh to be sure there were tiny differences if one cared to look close enough (as all the Barrowstarks had their own slight differences), but on the whole, Eddard could not at first look at her and not see her crowned with a wreath of blue roses and blood dripping from her hands. Marq, the heir to his name, eerily reminded Ned of his father—not in personality, in personality he was much like himself and Jon—but in little ways Ned could see much of the late Rickard Stark in the quiet boy. Osric, the stubborn and wild child was completely his brother Brandon. In fact had the boy not been so young, Ned would have suspected him to have been a bastard son that Brandon had begotten while being fostered in Barrowton.  
  
Ned did confirm Robb’s appointment of her upon hearing her tale of death, abduction, and treachery. Upon doing so he accepts taking on her younger brothers to foster seeing the logic of keeping them safe until Lyanna is more secure as Lady of the Barrowlands in her own right to have them returned to her. As they talked what he most noted was her staring at his own face with some fondness, which he immediately asked her to expound upon as they explored lower levels of the crypts—searching by torchlight for the common ancestor from which they both descended.  
  
She looked away as soon as he commented on it, saying, “Forgive me, my Lord, but it is only that you… you remind me so much of my elder brother.”  
  
“Elder brother? There are yet more cousins that I have not yet met?” asked Eddard with some attempt to be good-humored, though he did it rather awkwardly.  
  
She was quiet in her response, “He died, my lord, along with my father when the Ironborn came…” and Eddard felt for the first time in a long while as though he might have said too much.  
  
If the Ironborn had done this much damage to one town, Eddard thanked the gods he had thought well enough in advance to prepare his pack against all who would threaten them. They then at long last found King Dorren Stark, their last mutual ancestor. His statue looked worn and discolored from centuries of being in these moist caverns—but the majority of his features were still recognizable, and he sat upon his throne with an ease of victory about him—his sword long rusted shut and like to break and disintegrate if picked up roughly—Eddard figured.  
  
She nearly whispered her comment, “He looks so grave.”  
  
“Aye,” was all he could say as he too looked on the man’s statue.  
  
“Is that a throne or a skull?” asked Lyanna, as she moved beyond his face.  
  
Eddard took a moment to look himself before saying, “It is supposed to be a skull used as a throne, you could say—though it’s so worn down it’s hard to tell.”  
  
“Why did the mason carve him sitting upon a skull?” she asked with a mixture of curiosity and what sounded to Eddard’s ears to be disgust.  
  
Recalling the history of the North he instantly said, “He was called King Dorren ‘Giantsbane’ Stark for a reason.”  
  
“Gods…” was her awestruck response.  
  
Dorren’s direwolf did not lay loyally at his feet but instead had been carved sitting vigil over top the large dome of the stone skull carving. They spent the remainder of their time in the crypts in silence.  
  
After a change of boots and a retreat to his solar, his brother Benjen is insistent upon seeing him. He speaks of what had happened to himself North of the wall, and Ned is frozen with fear. He had heard Bran speak of wildlings gathering, wights, and Others, but had dismissed the Others since Bran had not seen any himself personally, hoping—foolishly he now saw—that the stories of Wights and Others might have once been separated but had grown into one tale as the years had passed. But hearing Benjen’s tale and seeing his wounded limp leg which looked as though a weapon had at once pierced his skin and given the surrounding area frostbite, scared Ned, but not as much as Benjen’s chilly realization, meeting his eye as he did so:  
  
“They aren’t men, but Winter incarnate.”  
  
It was then that Ned resolved to head North as soon as he was able with the majority of his banners gathered here at Winterfell. He also decided that as soon as he had caught up with everything that had occurred during his absence he would immediately go to Winterfell’s library and see if in some of the older manuscripts if they spoke of how to face the Others.  
  
Edmure is the next to seek him out to speak with him. He seemed sheepish over something he did not elaborate on, and Eddard thought to ask Cat later if she could explain her younger brother’s behavior. Thankfully he finally got to his point:  
  
“After Lysa’s memorial service, goodbrother, I mean to ride South to help in my father’s rescue efforts of my Uncle and the defense of Seaguard, I was curious to see if you might have some men you could spare.”  
  
Eddard knew he’d have to illuminate him as to why he could not send men immediately, so he said, “I must travel soon to the Wall—there are reports of… well, wildlings gathering force up there, and Night’s Watch has been growing ever thinner in membership, though I’ll see what I can do to assist you.”   
  
Mayhaps the forces with Robb might be able to travel south? Though he’d have to argue with his pup of a son about the need to stay in Winterfell with the pack. He might have led his own campaign and done pretty well for himself, but it was still a Children’s Campaign, as the men at Winterfell had called it—and his pup had much to learn yet. Then why not send him south so that he might learn it? Is not Edmure part of the pack? He’s a trout and a floppy one if rumor be truth. Eddard knew not how to make up his mind; he knew that Robb would use Jon’s absence as a reason why he should be allowed to go as well. But this matter could be decided once he was better acquainted with what was occurring in the South. So he called for Maester Luwin for any letters that might have arrived both currently and in his absence.  
  
Eddard was enraged to find that Robert and his brothers had been arrested. Immediately he scanned the letter for any hint of Jon’s fate, scared of what he might learn—but was soothed when he found three letters from Jon, one addressed to him, the other two to his wife, surprisingly enough. He read through them without bothering to read of the rest of the news from the capital, and found some comfort though not much. Jon’s first message gave Eddard some relief… he was safe, but the next sparked his worry yet again as it stated he was planning on assisting a rescue attempt of Robert, and the last message said that he had set sail and would be unable to write until he had either succeeded in rescuing Robert or been captured himself. Gods what was the pup thinking?! What did I think at his age? That I was invincible—his limited bravado with Robert from the Eyrie that Robert recalled were proof enough of that. War, actual war had taken that all away from him, as it would Jon, and mayhaps Robb already… oh that he had been here so that they might have not known such things. The rest of Cersei’s letters grew increasingly fevered—it appeared that Catelyn had replied with news when she had received it and the Queen Regent, as she styled herself was not pleased. The letter from Ser Brynden spoke in code of how though he was treated with respect, a prisoner of the Red Keep he was still.   
  
However the worst of the letters was one recent one just arrived today from Nester Royce addressed to him, surprisingly enough, and not Jon. Upon opening it he knew at once he had to speak with Jon and Edmure both. He collected his goodbrother who had been instructing Rickon and Robert on the mechanics of how to handle a bow—Rickon doing quite poorly and seeming to want to break the unmanageable thing in his hand, while Robert seemed to take to it rather well. Jon looked on with a kind of proud paternal look that Eddard couldn’t help but feel happy his friend finally knew. Unfortunately though, he also knew he would have to be the bearer of bad news. Eddard made a motion to indicate he’d like to speak cornered his second father away from the practice yard where young Lord Robert was attempting to try out a small bow and arrows simply to get the experience of knocking and pulling the arrow.   
  
Once he was sure that he’d pulled him away from where intent ears might have overheard him, he then updated them both as to the situation concerning the capital, the Lannister coup, and the rescue attempt underway to set the King free. He then spoke to them of what Benjen had told him, and though Edmure seemed like to dismiss it, Eddard challenged him to speak with Benjen himself and see the wounds the Others had left him—which had quieted the younger trout quick enough. The news of the Others however did not seem to shock Jon, and Eddard wondered what Benjen had told him on their journey from the Wall. He then turned to the point of his seeking them out and said, “Lord Nestor writes to tell _me_ that fighting has broken out in the Vale, and he asks for my assistance in putting down the resistance in the name of your son and Lord of the Vale.”  
  
Edmure at once began to panic that the fighting might spill through the bloody gate and into the Riverlands while his uncle was held captive, while all Jon could say was wryly say, “Apparently my letter from Eastwatch with news of my survival never made it to them.”  
  
With the capital likely under siege, the Ironborn raiding along the western coast, a civil war having broken out in the Vale, wildlings, others and wights pushing down from beyond the Wall, Eddard knew not the future of Westeros, and he spent an hour or so within Wolf—as no other name suited her more, in his mind—after driving himself to panic with worry. There was just something relaxing to be found in being with Wolf inside her skin, running through the forest, and howling to his cousins deeper within the Wolfswood, and hearing their distant but numerous replies.


	52. Cersei II

**CERSEI**  
  
As she looked upon Jaime’s lifeless body it was the only time she felt that divine judgment existed. She had gambled everything and had lost it all—her children, her title, her family name, her other half—everything for the taste of power.  
  
But what other choice should she have made? Robert had come into the court, armed with a warhammer—had swung, connected with her face, and knocked her to the ground before anyone could react. Joffrey, her beloved had thrown himself between Robert and her—only to receive the fatal blow meant for her. Robert’s brothers Stannis and Renly were close at his heels by this point, and Jaime had then sprung into battle with them, and while he was the best sword in the realm, he was no match for three Baratheons full of fury and while Stannis and Renly had occupied him, Robert had commanded a near fatal blow to his gut. Thankfully her screams prompted the Goldcloaks, Kingsguard, and Lannister guards from their stunned action and they had come to her rescue. The Baratheon brothers were subdued and the King proclaimed mad while she did hold back her grief over the loss of poor Joffrey.  
  
And as she looked over his pale lifeless body before he was to be buried, she’d heard once again:  
  
 _“Gold shall be their crowns and gold their shrouds,”_  
  
Discovering that Tommen and Myrcella were missing had been a bitter pill to take, but she took it and justified that when they were returned to her she would have both Lords Arryn and Stark executed along with the Baratheon brothers for their crimes against her family. News of their failure to arrive in Winterfell from the frozen Lady Stark, whose missive was short and borderline discourteous, only proved to send Cersei over the edge further. She felt crazed, she had allowed Tyrion to convince her to buy time with the Stormlords, she’d sent assassins without a second thought after the last remaining Targaryeons, she’d done everything to secure her son’s throne, only to have him reported dead…  
  
 _“Gold shall be their crowns and gold their shrouds,”_  
  
She had to strike back and punish those lords so far out of her reach… she’d already seized Ser Brynden, transferring him to the black cells from his “guarded quarters” was a simple matter, but it had been Petyr Baelish who’d come up with a way to punish, if not Lord Stark, Lord Arryn.  
  
All that she’d need to do was write a letter to all the Vale Lords declaring the truth of young Lord Robert’s hand in the death of his mother—the truth of which had been discovered in a letter left carelessly behind in the Hand’s Tower by Baelish—which was done almost as soon as it had been suggested. Lord Arryn would return home to a land at war with itself and even if he did manage to calm it, they would never accept his son as his heir. One debt half paid, but worthy nonetheless—if her sons could not inherit then neither should neither Lord Arryn’s nor Lord Stark’s.   
  
But these thoughts did flit away as she turned her gaze to the lifeless form of her twin, her beloved, her other half. What would she do now without him? With much grief she allowed herself to cry into his still and cold chest. When he had died she felt as though her heart had been pulled from her body, that a vital part of her was gone.  
  
“You summoned me, your grace?” asked a man’s voice.  
  
Cersei turned to see Robert’s favorite drinking partner—the Red Wizard. She calmed her breathing and wiped away her tears. She was still the Queen after all. She had heard rumors of priests in his religion in Essos bringing men back from death. It was unlikely, but if it could make her feel whole again...  
  
She commanded him, "You will give my brother life once again. I have heard tales of what you Red Priests are capable of--well do it."  
  
The old man seemed shocked at the suggestion, he fumbled with his response, "Your grace, I--"  
  
She knew exactly what to say, "Fail or refuse me and death shall be your end. Succeed... and I shall proclaim R'hollor the one true god of Westeros."  
  
And within a few minutes, Jaime did open his eyes once more.


	53. Oewyne II

**OEWYNE**  
  
As he looked eagerly over the side of the boat, he told himself it would only be for a few more hours. A few more hours and they would be in King’s Landing.  
  
He could not stand Marten Sayls, but for the sake of the sister of the other Oewyne he did put up with Marten’s sadistic little tortures—waking him up in the middle of the night at random hours, forcing him to eat maggoty bread found in the back of the steward’s stores, and receiving a punch or two when Marten felt it necessary. More than once he’d been tempted to go straight to Ser Davos and tell him the truth, but the one time he’d attempted to do so, the older Marten told him the minute he did that his sister would be dead on the absence of the next raven. He’d tried going to Melisandre next, desperate for someone to intervene—but she has withdrawn for the voyage to “meditate and pray” to her god, and barred her door to all.  
  
In all these attacks on himself he had tried to fight back, but in Oewyne’s form he found himself a weaker boy than the young man that Marten was. Marten was always careful to corner Oewyne in deserted parts of the boat or at times when most other men were occupied, and he always went for places where a bruise would not be visible less Oewyne ever stripped down to his smallclothes.  
  
Confused why anyone would put this amount of hatred into just one bastard—not even Lady Catelyn had done that, Gods he actually missed her and her frozen stares—he one night on his watch had made the mistake of asking why he hated him so much. That had earned him a worse and more enraged beating than he had ever received at Marten’s hands.  
  
As he kneed Oewyne in the gut he leaned over and in an angry whisper hissed, “Forget, bastard? Forget that you did kill our mother on the way out? That your father sent mine to the squids to die so he could fuck my mother in peace? I’ll make sure your memory lasts this time.”  
  
Oewyne tried to pull Marten’s legs out from under him, but Marten grabbed a fistful of his hair and stamped his foot on Oewyne’s.  
  
And now it made painful awful sense…  
  
At night he would dream he was back on Dragonstone, exploring the island, his paws sore from the sand and grave, his fur wet with ocean spray, and the insufferable heat—but it was a preferable existence to life aboard ship with Marten—but these dreams never lasted long as Marten was sure to interrupt them.  
  
But as King’s Landing appeared on the horizon, Oewyne thanked the gods that this trial of torture would end. He thanked them that he could shed this disguise and… still be sought after for capture by the Queen. But if he had to take that chance, if that was the way to rescue the King—his father’s dearest friend—then he’d rather that than to be killed hidden in another’s form. So the night the flaming arrow was shot into the sky Jon tore off the pendant and left it with the rest of Oewyne’s belongings. He felt the pain as his features returned to their normal shape. On this night he’d be himself and none other—for he was Jon Stark, not Oewyne Storm. He'd wrap himself in a cloak and scarf if he desired anonymity, but he would have his skin and no other.


	54. Rickon I

**RICKON**  
  
Rickon awoke to screams in his ears from his eaglet of a cousin. He was shaking, screaming, and nearly flailing himself out of the second bed that had been drawn into the nursery for him. Though they hadn’t shared at first, with all the visitors to the castle it was practically bursting at the seams—there was talk of opening the First Keep if anymore people arrived. Mother for the meantime had asked if they wouldn’t might sharing, and Rickon hadn’t minded at first.  
  
“Mother!” called out his cousin.  
  
Rickon with some exhausted irritation did get up and had to practically throw himself on top of his cousin in order to keep him from shaking further. The action had been fun at first, almost like a game to see if he could calm his cousin twice his age, but barely bigger than he. But Robert it seemed had begun over the past few months to grow more, so that the once weak little boy was now a much stronger boy than Rickon could handle—though he refused to admit it. But it made pinning his cousin down much much harder.  
  
Tonight it was not so easy to quiet his cousin, but he managed it just as Mother came into the room and began to fuss over Robert, who in the darkness mistook her for his own mother for just a moment. Rickon in these moments seemed forgotten, which wasn’t a new feeling for him. Robb, Jon, Bran, and Sansa had left—though Sansa returned asleep. Arya with the arrival of some of the new visitors had taken to practicing sword fighting—with a few of the other girls visiting joining her. And if she wasn’t sword fighting she was talking to an older boy who for the moment worked with Mikken. Mother, if she wasn’t busy with all the guests in the castle seemed to be tired all the time, or up in the library with the Septon. Uncle Edmure liked teaching cousin Robert—who was being taught on a real bow now, not the fake one that Rickon could barely handle with his chubby and clumsy fingers. Osha... wanted nothing to do with him, preferring shackles in the kitchen to speaking with him.  
  
The only one who seemed to notice him anymore was Shaggy. Sometimes he’d dream he was Shaggy—and every time he did the dream seemed to get longer and longer. He liked to think of himself as Shaggy… life was easy as a wolf. He could play with his packmates. Lady especially liked to play with him—as though she were bored when he wasn’t around. He could run and make noise without upsetting everyone. No one forced him to do anything. He was free when he was with Shaggy.   
  
_Who wanted to be a dumb two-legged man anyway?_  
  
And with that thought Rickon fell asleep, dreaming of howling to the moon, dirt through his paws and mud in his coat.


	55. Robert Baratheon II

**ROBERT**  
  
Ned had been right… damn him. He had always been right, hadn’t he? Well, he at least had been wrong about one thing: it had been Cersei who’d been the danger all along, not Baelish. The bitch apparently only went into heat for her own twin, the way Jon had put it.  
  
At first he had been held in a tower, until he’d broken loose. Then for his “safety” he’d been transferred to the black cells. There was very little to do in the black cells. At first he had tried screaming and seeing if he could break down the door to the cell—commanding the guards as their King to let him go—but they all ignored him.  
  
Why had he become king if only to end up in the black cells? Hadn’t he taken the crown to avoid them and keep his head?  
  
He was starving—they did not feed him properly down in the black cells—sometimes he suspected they skipped certain meals. As such he felt weaker, and noticed that some of his clothes seemed a tad ill-fitting—not enough they were completely unwearable, but enough that he would have to adjust his clothes several times a day—the feeling was rather new, but he quite liked it. Mayhaps if he ever did leave these damnable cells, he’d attempt to make himself anew. Being overpowered by all those guards had sure inspired him that he needed to make certain changes to his lifestyle. He’d practice in the yard as much as he could, he’d become the man who had slain Rhaegar Targaryeon once more. At the same time it did worry him. It was a sign that time was passing—the only one which he had. And with the looser his clothes became, the more time he knew had passed, and the less and less likelihood he’d ever escape.  
  
It was at these moments he fell into the deepest of depressions, wondering where he had all gone wrong.  
  
It was in one of these moods he heard shouting outside his cell, followed by a general clamor. Immediately he went to the door to his cell and saw far down the hallway torches and guardsmen moving quickly through the corridors.  
  
 _They’ve come for me… damn the bitch she has the audacity to kill me? Kill me?! I am the bloody King of Westeros!_  
  
He prepared himself to charge upon the men, and as soon as his cell door opened, he did just that. He knocked a few of them over, grabbing a sword from one of them as he did so to meet those who had come to take him to whatever death awaited him. He managed to overpower them in this moment and hurried off in the direction that they had come, eventually finding that he could not run far, and having to stop to pant, where he was o’ertaken at long last.  
  
The guards then beat him for fighting them and half dragged him with them. As they climbed higher into the Red Keep he heard the sounds of rocks colliding with walls, the shouts of men, and what unmistakenly sounded like a siege to his ears. Was he so close to being rescued?! Ned, Ned and Jon had come for him!  
  
In one of the hallways their party was attacked by Essosi-looking men. _What are these damned foreigners… the Seven!_ He wasn’t being rescued during a siege from murder—he was being dragged to his death as the Targaryeons took back the throne! He pushed through his panting breaths to rid himself of his captors who had become more distracted by the presence of the other men, but a cloaked figure, whose face was hidden behind a scarf grabbed him, and gray eyes met blue. Stark gray eyes.  
  
“N-Ned?” asked Robert through his panting, and he pulled at the scarf to see him… just as they had been at the Eyrie, and then everything began to grow fuzzy as his vision faded to black.


	56. Arya III

**ARYA**

 

Arya loved her father, she truly did. Since Syrio had arrived she’d taken up her training once again.

 

His compliments were cautious but welcomed, “You’re a bit sloppy in technique, but whoever taught you before me gave you a good grasp of how to begin.”  


Arya wanted to burst out that it was he who had taught her. She took to the practice yard in the late afternoons, when Jory and Uncle Edmure were finished with the squires, Rickon and her annoying cousin Robert. After a few days of practice, she noticed that Wylla Manderly and Meera Reed would watch along with Nymeria as she practiced, seemingly interested in what was happening. Later Dacey Mormont and her mother Lady Maege came to watch her practice. Dacey and her mother complimented her on her being a “true Northern lass” in knowing how to weild a weapon.

 

Meera would often occupy the practice yard afterwards and Syrio would with half interest comment on her form with her pronged spear and dagger—telling her that she’d need to loosen her wrists if she didn’t want her weapons knocked out her hands when fighting.

 

Wylla later asked Arya if she could join Arya in learning how to use a sword. Arya did not see the harm in her learning, but Wylla’s enthusiasm for the idea came to a sudden halt when she realized she had not a sword of her own. Her solution, Arya later discovered was to bother Mikken about the possibility of them making a sword for her.

 

Mikken seemed to be at his wits end with Wylla as he said, “Do you even know the first thing about the kind of sword you’d need?”

 

“That’s why I want to learn!” protested Wylla.

 

“Then go and learn about swords. When you can come back and tell me in specifics the kind of sword best suited for ye, then I’ll make it—not before.”

 

It was then that Wylla noticed Arya’s arrival, “Arya! Thank the gods, you’re here! Show him your sword.”

 

Mikken scoffed for a moment, shaking his head and long gray greasy hair before saying, “I know her sword well enough, as she did describe it to me well—but what’s to say that her sword would suit you? Aye and what of your father’s thoughts on the matter?”

 

Arya added, “Mikken speaks right, Wylla. You should know what kind of sword would be best for you before you ask someone to make one for you.”

 

Wylla looked crestfallen, so much so that Arya, gods help her, could not long see her as such without adding, “We could look in the library tower later to see if there’s a book on what might suit you.”

 

At this the formerly dyed green, now dyed gray of hair girl did seem to smile and ask when they could visit the Library Tower, out of which Arya gave her word that after the evening meal they’d visit the tower together.

 

“I thank ye for that. What be your business my Lady?” asked Mikken once Wylla had left.

 

Finally she could at long last do as she intended ever since seeing him riding into Winterfell with Uncle Jon, “Is Gen—your new apprentice still here?”

 

“My temporary apprentice is in the back,” indicated Mikken, and Arya rushed to the back of the forge. There she saw him at work on repairing a shield. She watched in silence and distance for the moment. She had not left Gendry on good terms when last they had spoken, and though she had been angry with him, it had always bothered her that they had done so. But that was the old Gendry… this was a new Gendry for a new friendship and future—one in which that argument would never take place, she hoped. When he placed the shield in the water to cool he did wipe the sweat from his brow and caught her eye as he did so.

 

“What are ye staring at?” he asked. And Arya could not help but smile—no matter the time they were in he would not take her for a lady at the first—granted she was Arya Underfoot once again—dressed in breeches and all a mess at the moment. She could pass for a stablehand.

 

“You came in with Lord Arryn, did you not?” Arya asked, deciding to see where this conversation would go if she didn’t tell him of her position—it might be easiest to earn his friendship once again if she did. And so she did affect her speech as she remembered she had to in the Riverlands.

 

Looking her over quickly he replied, “Aye. Is that a crime?”

 

She easily responded, “Nay. Twas merely curious why he brought ye with him.”

 

Looking over the cooling shield he then said, “He’ll take me with him yet.”

 

Arya was stunned, was he then so soon to leave Winterfell? She then asked, “Why?”

 

With a bit of confusion he asked, “Why care you?”

 

Arya admitted, “I would like to be ye friend.”

 

He responded, “A high goal for such a short time I’ll be here. Lord Arryn says I have family in the Vale that he would take me to. And you, girl, why bother me?”

 

She began, “I—“

 

At this Mikken did interrupt, “Lady Arya, your Lady mother is looking for you.”

 

Upon hearing Mikken, Gendry did freeze, realizing she figured that he had not been speaking proper to a lady.

 

“Forgive me, Gendry, but I must be going. I shall return though,” and with that promise she did leave the smithy. She hoped that in what little time she had, she and Gendry could reforge their friendship—as she had picked up her friendship with Micah upon realizing that this time had not been a test—but there was no certainty that she could. That uncertainty made her nervous—to say the least.


	57. Jon V

**JON**

 

“Not only did you disobey my expressed command, you put yourself, the lives of my men, and the King himself in danger! Do you have anything to say for yourself?” demanded Ser Davos.

 

Jon replied resolutely, “Only that I am sorry that I did not reveal myself to you sooner. But I did do my duty to my King, my family, and to the kingdom, Ser.”

 

Ser Davos was quite agitated as he spoke, “Damn your duty! For all the good it did Lord Stannis, not to mention your own Uncle!”

 

Jon corrected him, “My stepmother’s uncle, Ser.” Jon thought of how he was going to write to Winterfell, for he felt that the news must come from him… horrific though it be to be gutted and have his entrailed fed to him. The Mad Queen, once the siege had begun had begun killing off all those held in black cells.

 

Ser Davos looked at him and then said, somewhat mournfully, “Family nonetheless.”

 

Ser Davos then did sigh and said “You at least did rescue the King—though with his condition some doubt if he’ll continue to be fit for ruling for much longer.”

 

“I want no more tricks or disguises from now on, Stark, do you understand me?”

 

“Yes, Ser,” replied Jon trying to stifle a laugh.

 

Ser Davos noticed this and asked, “What’s so funny?”

 

Jon shook away any amusement and said, “Nothing, it’s just… with the ship dressed as a Essosi trading vessel…”

 

Ser Davos, seemed rather perturbed at Jon’s statement, “I know well the irony of the situation.”

 

Jon could see it, Ser Davos was obviously aggrieved as to the death of Lord Stannis—who had been found starved to death in his black cell, with Renly nearly with him. Jon could not blame him, as it seemed the two had been rather close.

 

Ser Davos seemed to gather himself as he said, “Good. Now off with you, I must speak with my mates.”

 

Jon left the captain’s quarters and walked back to the deck where he found Marten Sayls was interrogating a few of the younger deckhands.

 

Marten demanded, “Where is he? He can’t have vanished into thin air!”

 

Jon interrupted, “Leave off man. He’s like have died in the raid.”

 

“And how would—who are you?” Marten seemed to be taken aback by Jon’s comment.  


“Jon!” cried Fyodor, the youngest deckhand at two and ten, who with his ease at climbing reminded Jon a bit of Bran.

 

Jon summoned up what he could of his confidence and stated, “Jon Stark, and whoever you’re looking for, he has probably died in the raid.”

 

Marten’s eyes narrowed, “Stark? I recall you not being aboard coming here.”

 

He might have stepped all over Oewyne, but he wouldn’t do so over him, “Can I help if you’re blind?”

 

Marten replied with a tut, “Cheeky for a green boy.”

 

Jon knew what was coming next so he caught Marten’s wrist before it could connect with his gut.

 

Jon, staring Sayls in his eyes said, “Young I may be, but boy? I think not.”

 

“What’s going on here?” asked Ser Davos, who apparently had left his cabin in search of his most likely absent mates.

 

“I was questioning this intruder, Ser,” began Marten with a start.

 

“Were you, Deckman Sayls?”

 

_Deckman? Marten had been promoted to Deckman? No wonder he was bullying the other deckhands so openly._

 

“This intruder happens to be my protégé, Deckman Sayls. Is there any problem between you two?”

 

“No Ser,” they both said Not between Jon and Marten, at least.

 

“Keep it that way. We have to get his majesty to the Kingswood before sunset. Away with you men.”

 

Jon decided that it might be best at this moment to visit the King until his shift was to begin. His fat majesty was held in one of the empty storage compartments, with only two of his Kingsguard there beside him, one a handsome young man with light brown hair and a comely face named Arys Oakheart and the other, an older man with long white hair that Jon had heard tales of and known that his brother Bran looked up to—Ser Barristen Selmy. He and Arys it seemed had been part of the plot, working from within to help them get into the Red Keep and rescue the King—the other members of the Kingsguard had switched their loyalty to Cersei.

 

Upon entering, Ser Barristen whispered “Now might not be the best times. His grace is still somewhat confused in the head since his last

 

“Selmy? Who’s at the door?” demanded Robert.

 

Ser Arys announced, “Jon Stark, your grace.”

 

“Stark? Oh Ned! I knew you’d come for me. It hadn’t been a dream after all!” cried a delighted King Robert from his bed. Next to him, in a bed of his own, the pale and skeletally thin Renly did watch with scared eyes, as though he were a frightened fawn.

 

Jon attempted to smile, hoping to clear up the mess by doing so—as he knew his father rarely smiled, “Forgive me, your grace, but I am not my father.”

 

Robert blustered, “Of course you’re not Rickard, Ned, I damn well know that enough. Your father would have frozen me half to death with his words alone. And what’s this business with your grace, nonsense? Why does everyone keep referring to me as such? Aerys is King.”

 

Ser Barristen then scolded, “I told you he wasn’t feeling well.”

 

“What does he remember?” asked Jon, concerned for his father’s friend.

 

Ser Arys spoke, saying, “He goes in and out of memory. Sometimes he still thinks he’s a child waiting for his parents to return home, others that he’s just won at the Trident, once he did recall that he’d been crowned king. Right now, I’d say he thinks he’s a youth with you as your father once again.”

 

Robert waved for Jon to come closer, saying, “Ned, come here. I have this girl for you, all lined up. Wonderful teats! Can’t fit in your hands, I’d say.”

 

Jon said, “He needs to see a Maester.”

 

“We know that!” snapped Selmy under his breath.

 

Jon wondered at their plan. It had all been staged with the idea that they’d rescue the King and he would come in and save the day. But instead it appeared that the Queen had been telling the truth and his grace was mad.

 

Jon attended to his duties as usual, eventually coming upon Ser Davos, looking out alone to the sea. He drew near the isolated and weary-looking man as he was laying down a line in a figure eight pattern, as the book had suggested.

 

As he did so, Ser Davos spoke, as though Jon had intended to see him, “I must see this mission succeeds, Jon… for Lord Stannis.”

 

Jon replied, “I understand, Ser.”

 

“Do you?” asked Ser Davos and he left away, ending the conversation as abruptly as he started.

 

That night they did drop anchor near the suggested meeting place on the shores of the Kingswood. Robert and Renly were rode ashore in a dingy to a small party of men, bearing the sea turtle banner of Lord Estermont. Jon could only imagine how horrified they must have been at what they saw, most especially of the living skeleton that was Lord Renly.


	58. Catelyn V

**CATELYN**

 

Septon Chayle and Catelyn poured over every older book she could. For the first time in her marriage to Ned she felt she began to understand the North in a way she hadn’t dreamed of before. She had always known that they were an ancient kingdom, but just how ancient never dawned on her. The earliest texts talked of times even more ancient than they themselves recorded, giving Catelyn a sense that she were but the most recent in a long line of a quite ancient order. At her feet, the direwolf pup, Knight, as she had decided to call him—the name seeming to have come to her in a dream of a man charging into battle in full armor with this direwolf at his side—had curled up protectively.

 

She was surprised to find that Sansa had already begun to transcribe some of the more ancient texts, from which Catelyn found the information about warging—as skinchanging with wolves was called—was one of her more highlighted choices, along with information about direwolves, wights, Others, and the earliest history of House Stark.

 

One particular section that worried her:

 

_Warging should be undertaken with care as forming a pack bond while young can be extremely dangerous. Not until a child is old enough to have formed their own personality should the practice of warging be taught—less the wolf and man become one, and from that there is no turning back. If too close a connection is formed, then separation should be enforced until both wolf and man have recovered a separate sense of self._

 

Catelyn wondered just how young was too young, and she rubbed her swelling stomach with worry. Knight whimpering as she did.

 

Other sections spoke of needing to find a balance between man and wolf when forming a bond, and it was this section she hoped to bring to Ned—believing that he and that large direwolf had formed, what these sources had described as a “pack bond”, that he should at least be aware and know how to control it—rather than letting it control him. She commanded the Septon to continue transcribing the texts, and not to edit one word in doing so—no matter how the subject matter may displease him.

 

She then left the Tower, Knight following her at her heels as always. The wind did blow hard as she left the Library Tower, and Catelyn did pull the cloak around her tighter. The temperature was quite cold—though Winter had yet to arrive. She came out to see a sight of bannermen departing Winterfell. Edmure had already left for Riverrun, deciding that he could not wait any longer. Today it was Brandon Tallhart and his betrothed, Lyanna Barrowstark. She had been so long in the Library she had nearly forgotten that today was the day of departure for the future Barrowlands lords. So she hastened down into the courtyard to join the departure party. They were taking their leave of Lyanna’s younger brothers, the direwolves Lady and Greywind having come out as well. Lady seeming to want to draw Brandon’s attention, but failing to do so. Given what Catelyn had learned of warging, she wondered if but for a moment if Sansa… no, she couldn’t… could she?

 

“Lady Stark, I wished to thank you for taking my brothers,”

 

“Tis no trouble. Besides I think Rickon and Robert ought to find them good company enough.”

 

 _Speaking of Rickon where is he? Is he still asleep?_ He’d taken to sleeping and napping longer and longer… which worried Catelyn now. _Wargs begin warging by dreaming, and Rickon might just be too young…_

 

Feeling inspired from having read about the necessity of forming a pack bond—and the dangers of only half doing so, Catelyn urged, “Brandon, I would have that you take Robb his direwolf with you. His father’s gods, the old gods, may have sent them to us for protection. I believe he needs his wolf.”

 

Brandon looked confused, but eventually acquiesced, “I will do as you say, my lady.”  


And Greywind accompanied the Barrowlords as they rode out for Barrowton. Lady chased after Greywind to the gate, but stopped and howled. From her side Knight joined her and elsewhere she could hear Nymeria and Shaggydog add their voices to the cry.


	59. Clyffe IV

**CLYFFE**

 

Sailing out of Blazewater Bay proved to be a relatively easy task, as did setting a course for the Iron Islands.

 

The messy-haired and large-eyed mate, who didn’t seem that much older than Clyffe thought he was, that had taken command of the Redcliff ship took an odd interest in Clyffe—as it seemed everyone he’d thus far met since leaving Nylla did, “The Captain took a liking to you greenlander.”  


Clyffe simply responded, “She said I had blood of the Ironmen in me.”

 

The mate-turned-Captain scoffed and said, “Most coast dwellers do, that’s nothin’ special. But you…”

 

Clyffe asked, “But I, what?”

 

The mate-turned-Captain smirked and said, “Asha Greyjoy doesn’t let thralls turn into sailors.”

 

Greyjoy, for some odd reason that sounded vaguely familiar, but just as quickly as Clyffe recognized it, the recognition faded and he was left wondering

 

“She said I reminded her of someone,” Clyffe added oddly.

 

“Aye, that you do,” conceded the mate-turned-Captain.

 

Clyffe, deciding he wanted to know for certain demanded, “Who do I remind her of? Everyone keeps saying I remind them of someone, but they never say who.”

 

Tris looked saddened for a moment before saying, “You remind us of her brother, Theon.”

 

Clyffe recalled what he had heard on the other ship, and said absentmindedly, “The whole reason this bloody war got started in the first place…”

 

“Aye. And why Asha is wasting her time seeking blood up there when she could…”

 

Quick to catch what might be the “Iron” answer, he added, with a grin of his own, “She could be reaping the wealth of the Westerlands and Reach?”

 

The mate-turned-Captain scowled for a second before irritatedly saying, “You may have blood of the Ironborn in you greenlander, but look not so damn smug.”

 

The prisoners who had been taken

 

Among them, Clyffe was surprised to find was Lord Redcliff himself. He was an older man, nearly pushing fifty, who still had a shocking head of red hair and a beard to match it—from which he’d earned his name to change his family name from simply Cliff to Redcliff, or at least that’s how the village gossip had been prior to Clyffe’s being taken.

 

The ornery old man yelled “I demand to be let loose! As a lord, I’m entitled to certain privileges during war!”

 

The mate-turned-Captain, who had been drinking near the grating which the old man shouted up from, seemed to have an answer to everything including this, “Keep quiet old man, and be glad I still feed ya.”

 

The furious man grew as red as his hair and stewed in the straw with his men. Clyffe felt some slight satisfaction at this turn of events; at least the Redcliffs would never cheat Nylla ever again. Even when he was away from her, he was doing her some good. Some nights he dreamt of her, wondering what she was doing, hoping to whatever gods there were that she still lived and that mayhaps from time to time she thought of him. He would get back to her, that he promised himself. Somehow, someway, he would return.

 

They pulled into the small harbor of Lordsport, where the mate-turned-Captain apparently hailed from as he was greeted by the Lord of the port, a man who clearly was the father of his captain, with the same messy hair—though streaked with gray. He wore a green tunic with a school of fish embroidered upon it.

 

“Tris! My boy, I’m glad to see you’re safe. Any news of Harren?” said the older version of his captain.

 

“He’s dead, father.”

 

“No.”

 

Tris’ father seemed completely crestfallen at the news, while Tris only seemed further hardened at the news, “In the folly of Moat Cailin.”

 

“But the King said…” Tris’ father began.

 

Tris tried to hammer home his point, “The King was wrong. We’re fighting a senseless war up there in the North. Victarian saw it and sailed as soon as he could for smoother waters.”

 

“You speak treason, my son.”

 

Tris made his opinion well clear to his father, “Mayhaps I do, but truly at this point I care not. If he cannot take the North in the name of the Storm God, then mayhaps he doesn’t deserve to be King on the Seastone chair!”

 

The old man asked, “What’s brought this change over you, Tris? You were always such a happy child.”

 

Tris looked at his father as though he could not even possibly understand.

 

Dismissively, Tris stated, “I have some thralls to bring ashore,” as he walked past his father.

 

Clyffe assisted Tris in his endeavor, bringing up Redcliff himself first. The man seemed oddly calm about the entire thing, which should have been Clyffe and Tris’ first sign of warning. No sooner had he been brought up but he pulled a small knife that must have been missed when they disarmed him and threw him in the hold—out on Tris, bringing it to his throat and barked a command to the rest of the sailors and Tris’ father.

 

Redcliff announced wildly, “Stay where ye are, and he doesn’t die.”

 

No one moved a muscle. Clyffe felt his heart pounding furiously in his chest. “Good… now, everyone does as I say, and the lad doesn’t get hurt, understand?”

 

The old man began, “You’ll never get away with this—”

 

“Won’t I old man, or do ye want to lose another son today?” asked Redcliff dangerously, a small trickle of blood coming down from Tris’ throat.

 

“Leave him be. We’ll do as you say…” conceded Tris’ mate.

 

Redcliff barked, “Good… now, get my crew up here and weigh anchor.”

 

The old man blustered, “But you haven’t been resupplied—”

 

Tris once again let out an agonized groan as yet another droplet of blood ran down his throat. It seemed whether or not they were resupplied mattered little to Redcliff, and Clyffe felt a chill o’ertake him.


	60. Melisandre I

**MELISANDRE**

 

When the Stark boy returned to the ship she had been told of Azor Ahai’s death—it was impossible to her. Azor Ahai could not die. Or at least not stay dead for very long. She had departed the ship before they left the port—she would stay in this city where R’hollor had brought her. She would bring Azor Ahai to his greatness.

 

The false siege continued as she walked the streets of King’s Landing—putrified with the stench of thousands of people living on top of one another, reminding her of another time—another place…

 

_“Next up on the block will be Lot Seven. Lot Seven. Be not shy folks! She’s a pretty little thing, ain’t she?”_

 

Melisandre shook her head, banishing the long dead voice which had lived once more. That had been eons ago, and a different person—a slave. She was different. She served R’hollor’s chosen.

 

She walked through the streets of King’s Landing without garnering any attention. Despite the silken red dress which clung to her, no one looked to her as they all ran and shut themselves inside their homes—clearing her way for the Red Keep. She knew not her way, but put her faith in R’hollor to lead her on the path to his chosen.

 

She found one entrance into the gardens that surrounded the keep to have been abandoned—likely the men having been called to the distant front of the city walls. She heard screams, saw flaming arrow, heard hot oils falling, but she paid them no head. They were nothing to Azor Ahai.

 

She came to the guards of he main keep to find them dead already and so she passed them without concern. In the halls she floated through as though one of the dead among the living—for she felt dead for so long as Azor Ahai did not breathe. She felt R’hollor guiding her through the halls. Distantly she heard shouts, parts of conversations.

 

A woman not far off screeched, “What about me?” over and over again in an unending loop—like the serpent which swallowed its tail.

 

Soldiers came and went—she choosing to duck into crevices and corners as they scurried to their appointed place. Nothing surprised her; that is until she found him.

 

From her first sighting of him she could tell the old gray-haired man was one of her order. He was dressed in faded red garb and looked to be rather drunk. He sees her, but he does not truly see her.

 

“R’hollor lives through me!” boasted the man drunkenly.

 

“Of course he lives through you, brother, as he lives through all his chosen. Now tell me, where is Lord Stannis Baratheon.”

 

“What want you with that sack of bones?”

 

She felt her anger flare up within her and she grabbed the old excuse for a brother priest by the collar of his faded red tunic and said:

 

“He is the Lord of Light’s chosen, who shall do battle and defeat the Great Other!”

 

And she saw, reflected in his eyes, hers, aflame with fire, and he took her to him.

 

Within the grasps of the servants of the Great Other, the cold, the dark, and the dank she did find him. He moved not when they entered, and she could tell from his lifeless form that he had indeed stopped breathing, but that would be remedied, but it would require a great cost.

 

She turned to her drunken aged brother, and said, “Brother, I have one last request of you.”


	61. Asha I

**ASHA**  
  
It was foolhardy—that’s what it was. Ever since she’d moved her ships back into the Saltspear she’d taken notice how the Starks now sent sizable patrols along the coast. She could often see their flags flying high—axes on fields of white, evergreen trees on fields of brown, red-maned horses, and other more minor sigils she did not recognize. But what piqued her interest and desire for vengeance was the small patrol underneath a flag of gray direwolf on white field, being led on horseback by a boy who was nearly a man, decked in the same colors as the flag under which he rode. Trotting along side him was a larger dog.  
  
They had been watching the patrols for some time to come to know their pattern. They went in a rotation it seemed, riding along the beach—some during the day and others during the night and each making camp at seemingly specific intervals. The Stark flag rode during the day and camped at night, and it would be this night that the Starks would pay the Iron price for Theon.  
  
Theon, well he had been nothing to her father—that enough was true. And if he had lived, he was like to have been as much a greenlander as that coast dweller she’d sent off with Tristifer. Yet as she and her band of men came ashore, slowly creeping along the small dunes of the beach beneath the cliffs in the darkness of the night provided by a clouded moon, she could not help but wonder what her little brother would have been like had she come to know him. Would he have been as fierce and loved drink as much as Rodrik? Would he have been as cunning as Maron? She could only guess, as the little boy who’d left her father’s home had just been that—a little boy. It was hard for her to imagine what kind of man he would have become. She had hoped to find him one day, but thanks to the Starks, that was never to happen.  
  
They finally came upon the camp, where the Stark men slept, and she nodded to her men and they got up and charged. They sliced their way through tents. Asha in particular going for the main tent. She brought up her daggers and tore at the lumpy cot where Stark slept, blinded by her rage she was surprised moments later to find feathers and straw come bursting out instead of blood. Not a moment later she felt something grab at her ankles and she looked down to see an arm appear out of the sand.   
  
The next moment she was flat on her back and trying to recover what sense of self she had while arm in turn proved to be attached to a boy—nearly a man grown, but still several inches shorter than herself, with Tully red hair and blue eyes, and the faint dusty beginnings of hair on his chin, emerging from the sand. Blade met blade as they engaged in battle. He seemed skilled with his short sword, but her dagger was quicker and more nimble. He relied on his sheer force and strength, his movements slower than hers, but not as slow as if he were a mountain of a man. Just as she was about to bury her dagger in his bowels when she felt something bite her leg and as she recoiled from the pain of that, Stark did something she hadn’t expected him to do. He knocked the flat of his blade against the top of her knuckles making her instinctively drop her dagger. She then collapsed to the ground and the overgrown dog did pin her down, it baring its fangs.  
  
“Yield!” demanded the Stark with Riverland features. For the briefest of moments she thought that the dog and its master shared a look equal in ferocity—but she dismissed it immediately.  
  
Asha wanted to say she wouldn’t yield—despite her situation—but she knew what that would mean. It would mean her mother, already sent into temporary flights of delusional derangement at the death of her brothers, would be without a single child of her own, and completely lost at sea without a single anchor. That fate she could not bear to put her mother through. And so with horrific shame in herself, she did yield to the boy and his dog. The storm god take her for doing so.  



	62. Bran III

**BRAN**  
  
They had to keep moving, Coldhands rotated having Jojen and Bran on his Elk, with Lord Reed and whoever wasn’t riding the elk, walking next to them. To pass the time as they walked in the afternoons Jojen’s father told stories—many of which Jojen complained of having heard a million times before, but always eager to hear it once again if his father threatened instead to switch to another tale.  
  
The trip hardly was as difficult as the previous time—snow of course still covered the ground this far North, but the harsh winter winds which stole your breath from you, and the blinding snow storms were at least a year away, making their journey occur much quicker, but also gave Bran an uneasy sense of calm. Things were a little too easy—given what he knew of the Others. They journeyed most afternoons and nights, a pace set by Coldhands to ensure that they wouldn’t be taken in their sleep by surprise.  
  
During the nights, the traveled in utter silence, only the sound of their boots and the elk’s hooves against the snow to keep listen to. Coldhands had given Jojen’s father a dragonglass dagger which he tied to the end of his own pronged spear.  
  
And so their journeys went. Bran had just about given up on meeting any Others or wights when he felt them within a day’s ride or so of Bloodraven’s cave.  
  
He should not have been so optimistic, he learned not too long after the sun had set. He had joined Jojen’s father on the ground for the moment.  
  
At first it had only been a figure far off in the distance—walking across the path they were intended on taking—so far that at first Bran didn’t see it. But through Summer's eyes he could. The slow lumbering figure was dressed in the furs and skins of a wildling from what Bran could see and was likely either a wildling or at worse a wight. This was enough to alter their course slightly, so that they would journey with a good bit of distance behind the figure.  
  
Next they heard an extra pair of footsteps behind them—and Bran turned to see what looked like another skin and fur dressed wight not too far behind them—again traveling across the path they took rather than pursuing them.  
  
This prompted them to look to their left, which was where these figures were coming from—and through the trees Bran could see at varying distances wights popping up from under snow banks and walking towards their intended path or even right for them. The smell of dead meat taking Bran out of Summer's mind.  
  
“Wights!” urged Bran  
  
At this he expected them to all run, but all that happened instead was Lord Reed picking Bran up from underneath his arms and handing him to Coldhands, who settled him on the elk in front of Jojen.  
  
“Father, what are you doing?” asked Jojen, a seeming horror have crept into his voice.  
  
“You’ll see them safe?” asked Howland to Coldhands—the two seeming to know what to do despite the question passed between them. Coldhands croaked out that he would.  
  
“Father!” called out Jojen, as he squirmed to get off the Elk but was stopped by a firm grasp from Coldhands.  
  
All Howland did was nod to his son and Bran felt an eerie chill down his spine that this would be the last he’d see of the Lord of the crannogmen. And with a slap to the rear of the elk Jojen’s saw them on their way, with Summer on their heels. Bran looked back for as long as he was able, seeing Howland running himself, but soon he himself became a far distant figure who vanished into the snows.


	63. Sandor I

**SANDOR**  
  
He’d left Cersei the moment he’d failed Joffrey. When the king had come in and attacked the Queen and Joffrey had died between them, he had not expected the little brat of a Prince to have been so… protective of anyone else. The brat had always cared for his own neck, but it appears that he’d been able to summon some amount of normal emotions for his mother—and for that he’d died. All the while Sandor had watched, stunned at the King’s actions but then recovering himself and moving to attempt to secure the Prince out of the room to safety—then the brat had slipped his grasp and it was all over in the blink of an eye.  
  
That he was dismissed from service to the Royal family didn’t surprise him—truthfully he was glad to be out of their service. When he heard that… Gregor was due to come to King’s Landing and take up the position of Master of Arms which had become vacant thanks to the scuffle between the Baratheon brothers and the rest of those present. Gregor…  
  
 _Fire, all he sees and feels eating away at his face. Helpless, weak._  
  
 _“Maybe this will teach you to not to be weak!”_  
  
 _Indescribable pain eating away at his face. Hot searing pain._  
  
He shakes the memory from his mind, and allows himself to return to the present. He’d left with the Imp for the Stormlord camp not long after hearing of his brother’s arrival. The Stormlords might take a while to move from their encampment but at least he has a better chance meeting… Gregor on the battlefield and achieve vengeance for her.  
  
He can hear her laughing, and then in his mind she says, _“Promise me you’ll always be my sweet Sandor.”_  
  
He’d been too young… far too young to stop him, and he hears her screams. But they blend in with the cheering crowd surrounding him. The King has been rescued. Sandor hadn’t gone for the first siege—the force sent was paltry, just barely enough to cause a distraction—and it had been apparent the Stormlords were up to something. The Imp had told him so, and since… Gregor wasn’t likely to be seen on this side of the walled city, he hadn’t gone.  
  
But now the King was trotted out before the troops to give a speech before the true battle was to begin, where Stormlords and the newly arrived Reachlords would take the city—and the likelihood of the gates buckling would occur. And then, he’d meet… Gregor.  
  
“You don’t need words before a battle to face a mad monarch. A mad monarch is a thing most vile, and no one can be safe while they do reign. And if there is no safety, there can be no peace. A mad monarch is a perversion of everything the Seven-who-are-one stand for. And it is our duty to o’erthrow such a mad monarch. Now enough chatter, let’s kill us some dragons!”  
  
The men were too moved by the King’s enthusiasm to notice the slip up. Yet Sandor noted it, but he cared not, for now he was going to meet Gregor and make him pay, pay for what he did to their family... for what he did to her.


	64. Loras I

**LORAS**  
  
 _I shall kill the wench._  
  
As Loras swung at the post he’d set in the ground he imagined it having golden hair, green eyes, and a dress of Lannister red and gold. The Mad Queen, as many throughout the Stormlord camp now called her now that Lord Renly had been returned to them.  
  
Renly, with whom he’d squired, with whom he’d come to know pleasure… and oh what pleasure. The strong young Stag he’d been… now shriveled to a mewing doe thanks to the Lannister bitch.  
  
Loras cleanly sliced the top of the post off, imagining her head falling, and he felt satisfied. Returning back to the main part of the encampment he grabbed a whetstone and tossed the post he’d been practicing on into the scrap wood pile for tonight’s fires. They’d need every piece of wood to keep them going.  
  
Taking his whetstone with him, Loras set out for the tent where the Baratheon brothers—Renly and the King—were being kept. Just as soon as he arrived he overheard from outside the voices of his father and his sister in heated conversation.  
  
“I though you wanted to be a queen, Margaery?”  
  
“I do! But—I’ll think about it.”  
  
“You better!”  
  
It was then that his father stormed out of the tent—well as much as he could with his rotund figure. Loras gave his father a quick glance—an obviously once handsome man, grown fat with the peace.  
  
 _I’ll turn sellsword before I grow fat._  
  
His father, with a deep breath was all a bluster as he said, “Loras, impeccable timing! See if you can talk some sense into Margaery.”  
  
And without bothering to explain what he wants from Loras, Mace shoved him into the tent—where Margaery is sitting next to the cot that holds his weakened doe. Renly is asleep, looking almost as if he were dead and buried, if his reduced form didn’t shake with his breaths. The King is out being paraded around for the purposes of boosting morale, and is like to be back soon enough Margaery has beside her a bowl of broth she had obviously been feeding to him, and in this moment Loras can’t help but feel the two people he cares for the most are here before this battle.  
  
Loras silently pulls up a stool from on the opposite side of Renly’s cot. He then takes Renly’s shriveled hand in his, hoping that some strength may transfer from his battle-ready body into his bony one.  
  
After he felt that the silence had been held long enough, Loras then speaks to his sister, “Why the reluctance? I thought you wished for a crown.”  
  
“I do, but I cannot marry a man already married,” said Margaery  
  
Loras questioned, “What?”  
  
She clarified, “Father wants me to marry the king _this afternoon_.”  
  
This made no sense to Loras, at first, “Why are you squeamish now? Is it because the King is no longer… as he was?”  
  
 _Fat and mad... Seven help us._  
  
Margaery shook her pretty head and merely said, “His chosen wife before the Seven still lives—may she be cursed.”  
  
 _This is all?_  
  
Loras scoffed, “I would worry not over it. The Mad Queen is like to die tonight.”  
  
 _I’ll make sure of it._  
  
Margaery sighs before she says, “Loras, my dear _favorite_ brother—”  
  
But he doesn’t allow her to finish, adding, “Besides, when did you ever truly put stock in the Faith.”  
  
She protests, “That’s not my point at all!” and Loras feels guilty for not letting her finish, grandmother would not be pleased.  
  
She then takes a grin upon herself, and places her hand on top of his and Renly’s entwined hands, “Let me put it to you this way: tonight, the King may die, you may die, I may die, father may die, the siege may fail, or we may prevail.”  
  
He catches her meaning plainly, noting her glances to Renly, and Loras feels a shiver go down his spine as he contemplates his sister and Renly…he could share… he could share with her if he had to… not that he wanted to. He finally replied with, “Indeed, but that last outcome is more like to happen than the others.”  
  
Margaery smirks, “You seem so sure of yourself.”  
  
 _I have to be, for Renly._


	65. Jon Arryn III

**JON ARRYN**  
  
Jon can’t help but ponder at just how one stray raven likely lost to an Autumn’s storm has had drastic effects for his people. The news that has trickled out of the Vale is horrific—a three-way civil war between the Royces and their allies in the name of his son Robert, the Waynwoods and their allies in the name of Harry Hardyng, and the other Arryns of Gulltown, led by Elric Arryn who had surprisingly managed to scrounge up allies—no doubt paid for with the money earned from their... trade.  
  
That was the state of things as he had heard them from Nestor Royce, who had written that though he felt the situation was well in hand, that and rode south from Winterfell. If the Vale hadn’t been in a state of civil war he would have brought Robert with him—and even Myrcella as well—but they was safe in Winterfell with the Starks for the time being. His son was growing stronger, destined to become a true falcon, worthy of his father. Jon had been feeling rather glum before seeing Robert in Winterfell, but now, now he felt confident that come what may, the lad may be a little sick, but he would survive and become a man the Vale would be proud of.   
  
In the meanwhile, he would simply have to arrange for a peace in the Vale himself. While a version of Lysa’s death was known, hearing it explained from Edmure Tully’s own lips, inspired in Jon a sense that his son had not been in the wrong. It had been an accident—a horrible accident, but nothing to start a Civil War over. Which is what troubled Jon so… who and how had word spread out from? He’d have to proceed with caution in the Vale. He managed to convince Edmure to make a small detour to the Eyrie to pledge as a witness to the event before riding to join his father’s forces. Edmure was silent most of the trip, and Jon knew he was worried for his uncle’s safety, but Jon managed to convince him saying that his uncle would want for Lysa’s son to be secure in his rightful inheritance, and Jon knew he’d had an effect upon him. Jon had seen it in the few days he’d spent at Winterfell that Edmure had rather grown fond of Robert. Doing so had brought out a change in the Young Trout, a change which Jon suspected marriage and fatherhood would secure. The fondness was so developed that Jon almost considered changing his mind about Robert staying in Winterfell—and then Jon recalled his history of the Riverlands, and how they quite easily changed hands during times of… instability, and thought better of it. If he wanted his young goodbrother’s transformation to remain, he would simply have to introduce his goodbrother to an available lady of the Vale—which would have to be contemplated at another time, when the Vale wasn’t at war.  
  
Jon and Edmure came to Moat Cailin with what men Ned had thought suitable for their protection and was stopped there. After being warned of possible Ironborn lingering throughout the Neck, the two men continued on the King’s Road through the causeway. Thankfully their journey from that point until they came to the Bloody Gate proved to be easy—relatively all too easy, for Jon’s liking. That wasn't to say they weren't treated without the odd sight of a bloody marsh--with pieces of hands, fingers, feet, or even severed heads floating on either side of the causeway--but this Jon accounted to the lizard lions enjoying a free meal on dead Ironborn.  
  
The Royces of the Gates of the Moon had, since he sent his own letter from Winterfell, moved to secure the Bloody Gate it seemed, which was a blessing for Jon Arryn, for he re-entered the Vale with relatively little qualms or problems. In fact, had Jon not known from Lord Royce’s missive that the Vale were in Civil War, he’d hardly know it to be so, which disquieted him to say the least. When at last he rose to the Eyrie with Edmure in tow he looked out upon the long and narrow Vale of Arryn below and saw the first signs of what he thought were the conflict. Smoke and men marching--away from the Eyrie.  
  
Lord Royce received both Jon and Edmure in Jon’s solar—where he had laid out on his table a map of the Vale, held down at the corners with heavy weights. Upon the map were several wooden pieces, some in the shape of Jon’s own house of a Falcon taking flight and painted sky blue, a smaller but still sizable amount in the the green broken wheel of the Waynwoods, a still smaller amount in the resting white Falcons of Gulltown, and a few with the heads of House Baelish in the Fingers. Among the islands, plain gray blocks all stood—which Jon knew from his father’s strategy lessons oh so long ago were meant to mean neutrality. Edmure looked over the map with distinct interest. Jon looked at the Vale and thought he, unlike any other lord, had the distinct opportunity of seeing the fault lines which hid behind his rule of the Vale. Thanks to that storm and his suspected death, Jon was now afforded a tiny glimpse into a possible future—quite different from what the young Starks—of which only Arya Stark had been able to speak with him of at Winterfell as unfortunately his goodniece Sansa had been recovering from an attack she’d received in Barrowton—but it was the future nonetheless, a future where he was dead and Robert was too young to rule in his own right, leading to a succession crisis. More than ever, Jon was determined to live until Robert was of age.  
  
Lord Royce began after Jon had had a few minutes to observe the map, “It’s a good thing you wrote from Winterfell, we had many houses who decided to simply stay out of the conflict. But upon hearing of your survival most have declared immediately for you and your son.”  
  
Jon didn’t like the sound of this. The loyalty of the Vale lords had been a thing he’d always counted in times of trouble, it worried him to think that his son might not have the same luxury.  
  
“We siege Gulltown,” began Lord Royce noting the two blue Falcon pieces encircling the three white Falcons at the city.  
  
“You’re sieging Gulltown?!” exclaimed Edmure.  
  
Jon asked for confirmation, “The Gulltown Arryns?”  
  
“Along with Houses Shett and Grafton—who swore loyalty to them when the Gulltown Arryns swore that they would make Gulltown and not the Eyrie, their seat of power.”  
  
The impertinence of it all—but what was to expect from a house so focused on trade that they lost sight of all other practical matters, such as the defensibility of their seat.  
  
Edmure now seemed to understand the situation—Jon hoped he might learn something from this to be of benefit when he would have to plan how to defend his own lands when the time came.  
  
Jon then asked, “Who else fights with them?”  
  
“Not many, from what I can tell, Lord Elric had to buy the Belmores and Corbrays’ loyalties—though neither house has done more than accept their money,” expounded Nestor.  
  
“Not surprising. And Lady Waynwood’s host?” asked Jon.  
  
Lord Royce continued, “They’re the ones who have an ax to grind, unfortunately, my Lord. While the Gulltown Arryns are simply seizing the opportunity, Lady Waynwood takes personal offense to young Lord Robert’s… actions against his mother—”  
  
“It was an accident,” Edmure interrupted in a manner quite sure of himself, as though stating it to Lord Royce would fulfill his promise to testify as a witness to the action. Lord Royce nodded, he didn’t need convincing, Jon knew—others in the Vale did.   
  
And so Nestor continued, “They’ve declared for Harry Hardyng.”  
  
Edmure looked up in confusion.  
  
Jon explained for his benefit, “My niece’s son.”  
  
Nestor then added, “Lady Waynwood controls much of the Vale of Arryn, thanks to her alliance with Houses Hunter and Ruthermont, but she’s been spending most her time with trying to subdue Houses Melcolm and Moore, who’ve declared for us. She also has the support of House Waxley, but they’ve only just declared after having been neutral.”  
  
“I’m surprised she’s wasting her time with those houses,” interjected Edmure as he noted the broken wheels meeting battle with two blue falcons positioned along the southern coast of the Vale of Arryn.  
  
“She’s a Vale Lady, she knows sieging the Eyrie would be pointless, and cost her too many men,” commented Jon.  
  
“The last front to take note of is surprisingly in the Fingers. Little Finger has gathered a group of Finger Lords together in alliance—though they have not declared for whom in the conflict they support."  
  
“Are they still allied but neutral after receiving word of my survival?” asked Jon  
  
“Yes, my lord.”  
  
 _Ned was right…_  
  
“We haven’t heard back from all the islands since news of your survival reached us in the Vale, so we still consider them neutral at this point.”  
  
“That’s not unexpected. Is there some wine about, Nestor, I have an incredible thirst.”  
  
“I’ll have Randa bring some in,” and Nestor rang the bell to call the attention to his daughter.  
  
Jon asked, “What is she doing here?”  
  
Nestor blushed for a moment then said rather awkwardly, “She’s returned to my protection. Her husband died not too long ago.”  
  
Jon was taken aback by the odd manner in which Nestor spoke about it, but he “My condolences to your family.”  
  
“Thank you, my Lord.”  
  
“How did he die?” asked Edmure.  
  
Nestor, bless his soul, was discrete about the manner, “The way most men only dream of dying.” Nestor was less subtle though in another way by fumbling with his hands so that some fingers slid back and forth into the grasp of the others.  
  
Edmure gave a loud snort upon seeing the hand motion. His goodbrother had no subtlety, but that could change. Myranda Royce, a short, fleshy an buxom lass came in not a few moments later, asking what was required. She was told to bring in some wine. Jon watched as Edmure and Myranda locked eyes, and wondered for a moment if perhaps it might have been a good thing that Tymon Hersy had died after all, judging by the way his goodbrother looked at Nestor’s daughter, and she him.  
  
Mayhaps things weren’t as bad as they seemed… but what Baelish was up to with his little alliance worried him, the man was as cunning as a fox—this measly little alliance couldn’t be the sole trick he had up his sleeve…


	66. Jon VI

**JON**  
  
After dropping off the King, they were now left having completed the mission but without any set of guidance. Ser Davos, Jon quickly realized, had been counting on freeing Lord Stannis to give him some guidance or a sense of direction of what to do next, and now Ser Davos was like a boat stuck in the doldrums—without the force of the wind to help direct it.  
  
Jon figured had Matthos been there, he might have directed his father into some kind of course of action, like Matthos would steer Jon towards the tavern on Dragonstone. But with his other mates fighting amongst themselves from what he overheard, Ser Davos seemed not to know what to do.  
  
“Ser, I have been wondering what we are to do.”  
  
“Truth be told, Jon, I know not…”  
  
“Mighten’t we help Stannis’ brothers take the city?”  
  
Ser Davos gave Jon a look that at once seemed to enliven the Sea Knight, but also suggest he thought the suggest were a tad bit o’erestimating their abilities to assist.  
  
“Pray listen to me, Ser, but mighten’t we find someway to, oh… uh… cripple the ships in King’s Landing so that there’s no possibility of escape by sea for the Queen?” suggested Jon  
  
Ser Davos seemed surprised to hear this suggestion from Jon, but seemed to indulge him in the idea by asking, “Cripple them how, Jon?”  
  
“Oh nothing too lasting or too hard to fix… say cut the ropes that bind the booms or cut down the sails altogether,” suggested Jon, who went with what he could suggest on the fly as he hadn’t thought to be pressed too hardly on how to cripple a ship. The idea had simply come to him out of the blue.  
  
Ser Davos seemed to be using the moment as an opportunity to test Jon and he then mentioned, “It wouldn’t stop them from rowing.”  
  
“Then… toss the oars into the bay, the current will take them out to sea,” offered Jon as a possible solution to the problem.  
  
Ser Davos, who had seemed lost before, seemed to regain his spirits again from instructing Jon, “Aye. That would cripple them indeed. But consider, Jon, you might stop the Queen from escaping, but you’ll anger every captain in King’s Landing if you do. A man’s ship is his pride, his child—as it were. If we were to do this, we’d be opening the door to have it done to us in the future, not to mention that it’s disrespectful to the captains of those boats as well, and not all of them are going to be abandoned without any crew to keep watch o’er her.”  
  
Jon hadn’t considered all that, and put like that it made him realize just how unhonorable his suggestion had been and it made him pale at himself—how was he to call himself his father’s son if he went and pulled such a dirty trick. It nearly made him want to give up on the idea entirely, except the idea that the Queen might possibly escape by sea continued to nag at him. He didn’t like how she had questioned him during his legitimization, and her subsequent mad grab for power had hardly endeared her further.  
  
“Well, mighten’t we tell all those ships to set sail immediately then?” suggested Jon, which he figured was an honorable solution to the problem.  
  
“And the ships that aren’t manned?” asked Ser Davos  
  
  
Jon struggled to find as honorable a way to handle the problem, finally saying, “Then those we… send adrift.”  
  
Ser Davos nodded his head and said, “Not the best of plans, but a far cry better than damaging a ship. Ships come untied all the time—so long as no one sees you, it’s plausible. Damaging a ship… that’s a line you do not want to cross.”  
  
And with such a suggestion made, Ser Davos sailed them back to the harbor of King’s Landing in the dead of night. Almost all of the ship’s crew were sent to the few remaining ships—most of which had already left the massively large harbor due to the siege, Jon noted. Only a few remaining stragglers were left. Jon paired up with Fyodor, while the rest of the crew went their own ways to check other ships. Fyodor had hair the color of wet sand, was hazel of eye, and was the youngest deckhand at two and ten. He managed to run aboard ships which failed to respond to requests to come aboard, to quickly check and see if they were indeed empty before setting them adrift. Fyodor reminded Jon of Bran a lot—well, the Bran from before the other future—the happy, eager, adventurous and optimistic Bran who knew not that he was a skinchanger and greenseer, the boy who had had one goal in mind, and had simply loved to climb. Jon wondered if that boy was lost for forever with what Bran had endured in the other future.   
  
As they walked through the foggy harbor from berth to berth Fyodor told Jon that he wished some day to own his own ship one day and sail across the seas that none had yet explored. Jon warned him, telling him the tale of Bran the Shipwright—who had built the North’s navy and gone in such an adventure, only to never return. Jon did not tell him the rest of the story—of Bran the Burner who had destroyed the navy in grief of the father he had lost.  
  
“Mayhaps he found a better land than this. For all you know, you have could have cousins across the Shivering Sea.”  
  
“I highly doubt it. You would think that once in the past oh, seven thousand years or so they would’ve bothered to come back to Winterfell and visit. What about your own family?”  
  
“I got an older brother back in Duskendale. He cares not what I do with my life.”  
  
“He should care, you’re brothers after all,” urged Jon, thinking of the relationship he had with Robb, and missing him as he did so. Last he’d heard of Robb he had gone to Barrowton to fight some Ironborn… Jon hoped that—no he should be thinking that while Fyodor is talking.   
  
Jon returned his attention to Fyodor just as he finished what he was saying, “—but that’s nothing special.”  
  
It was then they came upon another ship in the fog that failed to answer their request to come aboard and Fyodor left Jon to check if anyone were truly aboard. Jon moved to be ready to unmoor the ship when suddenly he felt a knife at his neck.  
  
“Let’s get one thing straight, shall we? I don’t like being crossed,” hissed a voice in his ear with a sense of undue authority. And Jon almost immediately recognized it as that of Marten Sayls.  
  
Jon went to speak, but as soon as he opened his mouth he felt the   
  
“No talking. You do the listening now, got it?”  
  
Jon nodded his head, and the blade eased slightly from his neck—though it did not retreat entirely.  
  
“You know what I find suspicious is in the course of a few hours a deckhand goes missing and another crops up to take his place—poof… almost like magic. You know what I think? That you’re not fooling anyone with the disguise Oewyne… I can’t wait to tell your dear little sister all about how you’re abandoning her. How heartbroken do you think she’s gonna be then, huh? I imagine she’d likely die from it… then no one would stop my brother from getting that island…”  
  
Just then Jon saw something dark move through the fog and a bony hand reached out and grabbed Marten’s arm—an unbelievable heat emanating from it—causing Jon to feel like he was touching a boiling kettle—which likely is what Marten felt as he began to scream in utter agony, dropping his dagger, which fell into the waters of the bay with a splash. Marten soon rolled himself to the edge of the wooden pier, sticking his arm into the water, only to find the pain nearly doubled.  
  
Jon while this occurred also seered at the pain, but he soon taught himself to ignore it. Then turned his eyes towards where the burning hand had come from only to see a figure cloaked completely in red emerge from the fog. Beneath the hood two blue eyes—seemingly alit with a blue flame did stare at him. As the figure spoke, Jon never in his life felt as much fear as he did in this moment.  
  
It managed to utter out with some seeming difficulty his name, which sounded almost like an abomination as it was said, “Jon… Stark…”  
  
The voice it sounded so eerily… no. It couldn’t be. He was dead. He was dead. And it was then that next to the figure emerged Melisandre—equally dressed in red, with a wicked smile on her lips. With an eerie confidence that sent a shiver down Jon’s spine and froze him to his spot, he heard her say, “I told you he’d return for you. My fires never lie.”


	67. Bran IV

**BRAN**  
  
Within a few weeks of returning to the cave, Bran had found that it almost felt as though he had never left—the largest differences that Bran could tell was that Hodor and Meera weren’t there, and that Jojen wasn’t on upon the threshold of death.  
  
Thinking on Meera caused grief and pain to well up within him. To see Robb and her together had been too much for him to bear. And so he had left when asked to do so. Then when he had rescued her from the wildlings he’d thought that maybe she had come to follow him… but no, she had come for Jojen as her worried embrace of him after witnessing the death of Osha’s brother clearly bespoke. Bran had been left, having saved her life through warging Summer, to be unnoticed and completely forgotten in that moment. Realizing all that he had felt his heart crumple, and what little love he still bore for her did call out his wounded heart that t’were better to cut off all contact with her, than dwell on this pain each and every day. And so he looked forward to being away from her. He had achieved just that by asking her to take Osha south to Winterfell. But the separation instead had only made his dreams of her become more numerous, and the pain all the harder to endure.  
  
This morning, despite the days upon days worth of repeating this same ritual over and over again Jojen still went to the mouth of the cave. Bran followed as he always did, for both a concern for the man who had saved his life as well as worry for his friend’s desperation for any news regarding the man’s fate. They met Coldhands at the entrance. He stood on the otherside of its threshold—unable to enter due to the wards that Leaf and the other Children had long ago cast upon it—and Jojen once again asked out his question:  
  
“Have you found my father?” demanded Jojen.  
  
And as always, Coldhands response was, “No.”  
  
Jojen, asked for him to keep searching. Before Coldhands would reply that he would, but today he said nothing in reply to Jojen’s request, and Bran couldn’t help but wonder if this meant Coldhands would search no more.  
  
After their morning ritual they both joined Bloodraven deeper in the cavern. Bloodraven was sitting, from what Bran could see, in his weirwood root seat, with roots which entwined themselves through his decaying body. A single red eye stared at them both—the other eye having since fallen victim to a root. Bloodraven spent most of his time and attention on Jojen, which Bran felt a little jealous over, but said nothing. After all, Jojen had not the experience he had had in the other future. They usually began by eating weirwood paste—a thick oatmeal like substance ground finely into a mash from Weirwood seeds, mixed with the red sap of the weirwood. Jojen was then asked to seek visions while Bloodraven each day asked Bran what he had seen in his dreams. Usually Bran said he saw nothing, or saw things that seemed uninteresting to the ancient corpse. After this he was dismissed and usually allowed to more fully explore the caverns. Only today did Bran have an answer that gave the decaying greenseer pause.  
  
“I saw my brother Jon fall down and die and rise again with blue eyes.” The dream had utterly terrified Bran, but what had confused him was that Jon had been dressed in the black furs and clothes indicating a member of the Night’s Watch.  
  
“We shall discuss this vision you have seen Bran Stark. For it is an important one. Come closer,” beckoned the ancient man.  
  
When Bran was close enough for Bloodraven to reach out and touch him, he did continue, “The day you appeared in our time I heard a scream across all of Westeros. The trees felt as though a part of them had been ripped from them from the roots.”  
  
 _He knew?_  
  
Bloodraven then asked directly, “Why did you come?”  
  
“I didn’t want to—I just woke up one morning to find me and Sansa, Rickon, and Arya had all been sent through time.”  
  
Quietly the man entwined with the roots did respond, “Sent you have been, but your time still continues on.”  
  
“What do you mean?” asked Bran as a cold shiver traveled down his spine.  
  
“You will find the answers to what you seek in the darkness. Stop fighting them, and allow them to come to you.”  
  
And the Last Greenseer closed his one eye, leaving Bran to meditate on what he had spoken. So Bran settled down and tried to reach back for the vision he had seen, the vision came rather swiftly, and once again he rather confusingly was not limited to the view of a weirwood tree.  
  
He once again was at the wall, Jon falling from a series of bloodied knives. The murderous brothers in black then did depart. He was found by a woman Bran knew not, who called for help and several men dressed in furs not black of color came and took his brother’s body away. He was then laid out upon a bed and Bran felt many days and nights go by before one morning he did open his eyes and instead of Stark gray, Bran saw they glowed blue. Jon then did rise and walk out into the light of day and slew the treacherous brothers in black, allowing them to be burned to death in a red of hair woman’s fires.  
  
The vision did shift and change after that as a swarm of bats did envelop him and then depart with the scene having changed.  
  
He was suddenly in a large nearly empty hall that he’d ne’er seen before. From the sky blue colors, the falcons decorating the hall, and the wind he heard rattle the windows he guessed it from his sister’s description to be the Eyrie. In the hall were a few people, but only one that he recognized—Sansa, but with dark hair. She stood there crying in front of a man barely taller than herself, dark of hair and with a certain glint in his eye that disturbed Bran.  
  
“I know not—” began the man.  
  
“I want my mother!” cried the dark of hair version of his sister.  
  
“Alayne, sweetling you know that she has been dead--”  
  
“I’m not Alayne!”  
  
And with that the bats returned and once again left him, this time at a dirty street corner on the slope of a hill of a crowded city. Bran saw what he at first thought was a boy turning the corner—before he caught the face and recognized that it was instead, Arya. Close behind her came a man whom his sister had ne’er described to him. In fact he had no idea where this city was or why Arya was in it.  
  
“Put me down!” ordered Arya.  
  
“Come little Cat, your instruction has just begun.”  
  
“My name is Arya!” protested his sister.  
  
And yet again the bats came and now he was on the windswept features of an island, where Bran saw Shaggydog and a small boy who Bran immediately recognized as Rickon, trembling in the arms of a man Bran knew not. The man looking on as though defeated from the sight. The bats came more quickly after this, barely giving Bran enough time to determine what he saw.  
  
The bats returned yet again and then he was left to a wooden room where a wooden box sat alone, as though waiting for someone to claim it.  
  
He was then outside, in front of a fortress of a bridge—the Twins!—where a band of men led by a hooded woman did set it to flame.  
  
The bats swamped his sight and then revealed to him a river bank where a pack of wolves led by a larger one sat at the foot of a rotting armored corpse with a wolf’s head, a mournful howling echoing across the woods.  
  
A woman fair of hair rode astride a dragon, raining fire down upon a city.  
  
A white of hair wreck of a man knelt before a weirwood. A sword swung and blood did spill.  
  
Finally the vision seemed to settle and Bran saw himself in the very cave—but he looked older, like he had been—and he looked horrified and confused as he used his hands to try and force his legs to move.  
  
“You must connect with the trees,” urged the Bloodraven of the vision.  
  
“What did you do to me?!” he heard himself frantically cried. In the vision he saw Meera attempt to soothe him, but she was rebuffed.  
  
“Get away from me! You crippled me!” the vision of him cried ferally at Meera.  
  
Bran was then pulled out of his vision from a scream. He took a moment to realize that his vision had ended, and then saw Jojen thrashing about on the floor of the cave. Immediately he ran to his friend’s side, and attempted to soothe him.   
  
Then suddenly Bran saw Jojen’s eyes snap open, they glowed and were completely green of color, and he did say:  
  
“Three shall rise,  
Fire, Earth and Ice their rule.”


	68. Robb VI

**ROBB**  
  
He should feel like a proud conquering hero from the songs of old bringing the last Greyjoy heir to Winterfell in chains and shackles, and yet he did not. He returned to Winterfell knowing through Grey Wind that Sansa had not left Lady when her body had returned to the castle. Nor had she by the time Grey Wind had left Winterfell to come to his side. And through the weeks that had followed of employing his plan to capture Asha Greyjoy, seeing the public betrothal of Brandon Tallhart to Lyanna Barrowstark, and seeing that the administrating of the town from the meager keep of Southgate was on firm footing. He’d even settled Lord Ryswell’s rival claim by reminding him that if he took the Barrowlands that he’d have to supply all of Barrowton and its own winter growth of food for however long the coming “Long Winter” was to be, in addition to his own lands. That had brought him round to singing a different tune soon enough. During all this time Robb had hoped that Sansa would have returned to herself. And as he had approached the walls of Winterfell which he knew so well, he had been hoping to see Sansa waiting at the gates, but instead there was only Lady.  
  
He had felt like pulling the growing direwolf aside, screaming at her, shaking her, but even he suspected the wolf with which his sister shared skins would not be so gentle to receive such treatment—even from a packmate. So instead he took note to corner Lady in the same room as Sansa and do everything he could to separate her from her wolf, even if he knew not what that meant. Why did Bran have to leave them now? Just when they needed him…  
  
The only solace and joy he received in his homecoming was the sight of his father. And had it not been for the men at his back, he would’ve discarded all show of manhood and run up and hugged his father like the little boy he had once been. But he and his father weren’t alone until they had retreated to his father’s solar not long after Asha had been taken to Winterfell’s own cells beneath the armory. Grey Wind and his mother were curled up by the fireplace.  
  
“I have sent most of the bannermen you called North to the Wall. Others I’ve returned to their lands to see that a good harvest is brought in. We need to be sure this next harvest is a good one.”  
  
“North to the Wall?” asked Robb.  
  
“Aye, they went with your Uncle. I plan on joining them myself soon.”  
  
Robb protested, “But father—you just returned to us.”  
  
His father smiled before saying, “Your mother said much the same, but it cannot be helped. Not with the news of Others and Wildlings gathering beyond the Wall.”  
  
Robb was silent. In his memory a scene played out that felt as though it were from oh so long ago, Bran’s words echoing in his ears.  
  
 _If he can learn about the Others, then I don’t think anything would drag him south._  
  
And here Father had finally learned and believed the truth that Robb had come to accept that night. They had all been told this by Bran, but it seemed now only when Uncle Benjen had returned and spoken to him that his father believed about the Others.  
  
“You’ll at least stay for the birth?” asked Robb.  
  
“Aye, I would not leave your mother when she is so close. But the Wall cannot be ignored. We’ve done so for far too long.”  
  
They then spoke of Jon, and Robb felt immediately upon learning all that Jon’s letters spoke of, that he should go South himself and drag his younger brother North kicking and screaming if he had to, but his father reminded him that no news had been heard from the capital since the report an army of Stormlords had encamped outside of it, and Wyman Manderly’s newly gathered fleet had already set sail for Dragonstone, where Jon was, and he’d soon have the protection of Northmen as their father had commanded Wyman to tell his captain that he was to have Jon transferred to his bannermens’ command as soon as they set foot upon Dragonstone—and Robb felt a bit at ease—not completely, but a bit more. Now if only his little sister could…  
  
They spoke of the south and his father seemed to growl at the news—weeks and weeks old that King’s Landing was likely under siege, and not a word since. Robb could tell his father wished he could go to aide the King, but the news of the Others kept his father bound to the North, as Bran had said it would.  
  
Finally when it seemed that most everything had been spoken of, his father then said, “I am proud of you, you know that right? You’ve gone and distinguished yourself a man in battle. It might have been a rocky start at first, but you’ve grown and learned your footing, and earned the loyalty of our banners. You’ve also brokered a betrothal and secured the seat of our bannermen to the rightful heir. You did all this while being yet young. I am afraid my absence forced you from the den too soon, but I am not sorry you had the chance to prove yourself. But now we must consider a betrothal and marriage of your own. I would feel safer at the Wall knowing that our pack has the potential to grow still.”   
  
He imagined his father on the wall, a lone wolf without a pack, and asked, “You won’t take me with you?”  
  
“Someone needs to look after Winterfell. Your mother won’t be able to once your new brother or sister is born as the babe will take most of her attention, and Rickon is far too young and has… troubles of his own.”  
  
“Troubles?” asked Robb.  
  
“I would speak with your mother on the subject. Our wolves are as Bran said his was with him in the other time.”  
  
“You as well?” asked Robb with a certain enthusiasm.  
  
“Aye, Wolf and I as well.”  
  
“Wolf?”  
  
“A direwolf need no other name. But as to Rickon, it seems he and Shaggydog are… too close.”  
  
Robb could only imagine what that meant. Mayhaps Rickon was spending too much time in Shaggy, like Sansa was Lady.  
  
“Father, I think Sansa—”  
  
“Aye, she is. Wolf knows and is as unhappy about it as I am, but there is little we can do. I’ve tried everything to coax her to wake, and Wolf has all but snapped at Lady, but Sansa will only do so when she chooses, and not before.”  
  
Robb concluded, “So I must stay here and be the Stark in Winterfell.”  
  
“Aye and I put great trust in you to do so.”  
  
 _You shouldn’t. I nearly botched everything in the Barrowlands, if Sansa…_  
  
“You’re five and ten, practically a man grown. You should also spend this time to find a girl to think on, to plan a future with and secure our House. Let me know some peace on the Wall.”  
  
Robb blushed at the suggestion, and in an instant he thought of green eyes and brown hair, and then remembered that she had gone after Bran as he’d suggested. And besides she had not cared for him as he had her. She’d made that clear.   
  
After conversing with father what felt like hours he then departed the solar to speak with mother who was doing her best to keep Rickon in her sight, and her words were sobering to say the least. If Sansa stayed in Lady for too longs she’d stop thinking of herself as Sansa. She’d completely disappear within Lady, and then he’d truly have failed his little sister.  
  
“Why would she stay in the wolf, I know not. Believe me Robb I’ve been searching for the answers in these books, but half of them speak as though the reader should know what to do,”   
  
“I know why Lady stays the way she is, just having two legs is no fun,” added Rickon  
  
An icy chill coursed through Robb’s body. Were Sansa this bad or worse? He had to do something, now.  
  
He then left his mother with Rickon and together with Grey Wind, sought out Lady. She wasn’t hard to find, playing in the Godswood with Shaggydog and Knight. He let Grey Wind join his packmates and then approached his sister-wolf. She stared up at him with eager eyes as Robb reached down to pet her fur.  
  
 _It’s my mistake you’re in this mess, and I’ll be the one to fix it. I have to._  
  
He asked her to come, and she followed, Robb took his sister-wolf to her room where her true skin lay still asleep—kept alive with honey water. He closed the door so that she would not leave and then he then knelt and hugged his sister-wolf.  
  
“Sansa, I failed to keep you safe… I am so sorry… but please, don’t look for safety inside of your wolf. Come out of Lady… please Sansa.”  
  
Lady whined and her ears went flat. She pulled back from his grasp, but the more she pulled the harder he held her. He felt her claws come out and heard her growl and her mouth open slightly, but still he held on. And so she bit him on his cheek. It truly was a nip, but her sharp teeth had still drawn a little blood. Robb let Lady go for a moment and rose, his sword hand pressed against where she had nipped him, feeling droplets of his cold blood bursting forth.  
  
With a little anger surging inside of him he turned to face the direwolf and said, “Bite me if you would. I care not, but you must come out of Lady!”  
  
 _I must not fail her… not again…_  
  
“Please… Sansa…”  
  
And he stared at his sister-wolf who seemed confused by the entire matter and suddenly for the first time Robb considered a possibility that he had not wanted to think on.   
  
“Sansa,” he called out to the wolf, her eyes torn with confusion and ears still flat against her head.  
  
“Lady,” he said instead, and her ears returned to their upright position.   
  
_Gods why had I not seen it earlier?_   
  
He had failed her… just when it had mattered most. He had failed her. He should have dropped chasing dreams of glory defeating the Ironborn and accompanied her back to Winterfell. He should have protected her better, like a brother should do. It was then that from the depths of his gut he was o’erwhelmed with a sorrow so great he knew not how to hold back, so he did not. He let it wash o’er him cause his body to tremble, tears to well up in his eyes and for him to collapse to his knees. Soon enough he heard a whine from the wolf and felt a warm and silky tongue lick at his cheek. He cared not. His little sister was gone and yet remained but was not her, all because of his stupid mistakes.

**Author's Note:**

> This is the second "arc" of the time line from Alternate History.com. If you haven't read Begin Again, I suggest you do so. This second arc is much longer than the first arc and still in the process of being written and edited for your reading pleasure.


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